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■ 


k 


LITT 

I.     To 

LE 

THE 

JOURNEYS 

Homes  of  Good  Men 

and  Great 

II.     To 

THE 

Homes   of  American 

Authors. 

III.     To 

THE 

Homes    of    Famous 

Women. 

IV.     To 

THE 

Homes   ok  American 

Statesmen. 

V.     To 

THE 

Homes  of    Eminent 

Painters. 

G.  P. 

PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW   YORK   AND    LONDON 

ELIZABETH   BARRETT  BROWNING. 


Copyright,  1897 

BY 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


Vbc  Knickerbocker  pre**,  new  £«fk 


CONTENTS 

1 

PAGB 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING        1 

2 

MADAME  GUYON 

.      .      .      41 

3 

HARRIET  MARTINEAU 

.      .      .      79 

4 

CHARLOTTE  BRONTE 

.      .     115 

5 

CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI 

.       .     145 

6 

ROSA  BONHEUR  .      . 

.      .     173 

7 

MADAME  DE  STAEL . 

.      .     213 

8 

.      .     251 

9 

MARY  LAMB .      .      . 

.      .      .     289 

10 

JANE  AUSTEN       .       .      . 

.      .     323 

11 

EMPRESS  JOSEPHINE 

.      .     355 

12 

MARY  W.  SHELLEY   .      . 

.      .     393 

ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGB 

PORTRAIT  OF  ELIZABETH  BARRETT 

BROWNING       ....        Frontispiece 
From  a  steel  engraving. 

PORTRAIT  OF  MADAME  GUYON  .       .       4* 

From  a  steel  engraving  designed  by  Cheron 
Pinae. 

PORTRAIT  OF  HARRIET  MARTINEAU       80 

From  an  engraving  designed  by  Miss  M. 
Gillies. 

PORTRAIT  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE  at 

From    an    engraving    designed    by   J.    B. 
Wandesforde. 

PORTRAIT  OF  CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI     146 

From    a    drawing   by   her    brother  Dante 
Gabriel  Rossetti. 

PORTRAIT  OF  ROSA  BONHEUR  .   .  '74 

From  the  drawing  by  Soulange  Ceissier. 

PORTRAIT  OF  MADAME  DE  STAEL    .     "4 

From  an  engraving  designed  by  Gerard. 

PORTRAIT  OF  ELIZABETH  FRY    .       .     252 

From  a  steel  engraving  from  a  painting  by 
C.  K.  Leslie,  R.A. 

PORTRAIT  OF  MARY  LAMB         .       .     290 

From  an  old  engraving. 

FACSIMILE  LETTER  OF  MARY  LAMB     298 


11  [lustrations 


PACE 

PORTRAITS  OF  CHARLES  AND  MARY 
LAMB 306 

From  a  rare  print. 

PORTRAIT  OF  JANE  AUSTEN       .       .     3-4 

From  a  steel  engraving  based  on  an  original 
family  portrait. 

PORTRAIT  OF   EMPRESS  JOSEPHINE     356 

Photographed  from  an  original  painting. 

PORTRAIT  OF  MARY  W.  SHELLEY    .     394 

From  an  engraving. 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT 
BROWNING 


I  have  been  in  the  meadows  all  the  day, 
And  gathered  there  the  nosegay  that  you  see ; 
Singing  within  myself  as  bird  or  bee 
When  such  do  field-work  on  a  morn  of  May. 

hreparableness. 


FOREWORD 

In  every  life  where  spirit  and  intellect 
truly  blossom  there  are  a  few  persons  and 
a  few  events  that  stand  out  like  fixed 
stars.  Of  these  I  have  endeavored  to 
speak.  I  have  also  tried  to  give  a  glimpse 
(that  was  mine)  of  the  environment  that 
played  its  part  in  the  Evolution  of  a 
Soul. 

No  attempt  has  been  made  to  tell  all 
about  the  subject — there  is  more  can  be 
said  ! 

E.  H. 


ELIZABETH    BARRETT 
BROWNING. 


WRITERS  of  biography  usually 
begin  their  preachments  with 
the  rather  startling  statement, 
"  The  subject  of  this  memoir  was  born  " 
.  .  .  Here  follows  a  date,  name  of 
place  and  a  cheerful  little  Mrs.  Gamp 
anecdote  :  this  as  preliminary  to  "launch- 
ing forth," 

It  was  the  merry  Andrew  Lang,  I  be- 
lieve, who  filed  a  general  protest  against 
these  machine-made  biographies,  plead- 
ing that  it  was  perfectly  safe  to  assume 
the  man  was  born  ;  and  as  for  the  time 
and  place  it  mattered  little.  But  the 
5 


£H3abetb  JBarrett  JBrowntng 


merry  man  was  wrong,  for  Time  and  Place 
are  often  masters  of  Fate. 

For  myself  I  rather  like  the  good  old- 
fashioned  way  of  beginning  at  the  be- 
ginning. But  I  will  not  tell  where  aud 
when  Elizabeth  Barrett  was  born,  for 
I  do  not  know.  And  I  am  quite  sure 
that  her  husband  did  not  know.  The  en- 
cyclopaedias waver  between  London  and 
Herefordshire,  just  according  as  the 
writers  felt  in  their  hearts  that  genius 
should  be  produced  in  town  or  country. 
One  man  with  opinions  well  ossified  on 
this  subject,  having  been  challenged  for 
his  statement  that  Mrs.  Browning  was 
born  at  Hope  End,  rushed  into  print  in  a 
letter  to  the  Gazette  with  the  counter- 
check quarrelsome  to  the  effect,  "You 
might  as  well  expect  throstles  to  build 
nests  on  Fleet  Street  'buses,  as  for  folks 
of  genius  to  be  born  in  a  big  city."  As 
apology  for  the  man's  ardor  I  will  explain 
that  he  was  a  believer  in  the  Religion  of 
the  East  and  held  that  spirits  choose  their 
own  time  and  place  for  materialization. 
6 


jeit3abetb  Barrett  JBrownfiw 


Mrs.  Ritchie,  authorized  by  Mr.  Brown- 
ing, declared  Burn  Hill,  Durham,  the 
place,  and  March  6,  1809,  the  time.  In 
replv,  Mr.  John  H.  Ingram  brings  forth 
a  copy  of  the  Tyne  Mercury,  for  March 
14,  1809,  and  points  to  this  : 

"  In  London,  the  wife  of  Edward  M. 
Barrett,  of  a  daughter." 

Mr.  Browning  then  comes  forward  with 
a  fact  that  derricks  cannot  budge,  i.  e., 
"Newspapers  have  ever  had  small  regard 
for  truth."  Then  he  adds,  "  My  wife  was 
born  March  6,  1806,  at  Carlton  Hall, 
Durham,  the  residence  of  her  father's 
brother."  One  might  ha'  thought  that 
would  be  the  end  on  't,  but  it  was  n't,  for 
Mr.  Ingram  came  out  with  this  sharp 
rejoinder  :  "  Carlton  Hall  was  not  in 
Durham  but  in  Yorkshire.  And  I  am 
authoritatively  informed  it  did  not  be- 
come the  residence  of  Mr.  S.  Moultou 
Barrett  until  some  time  after  1810.  Mr. 
Browning's  latest  suggestions  in  this  mat- 
ter cannot  be  accepted.  In  1806,  Mr. 
Edward  Barrett,  not  yet  twenty  years  of 
7 


£U3abetb  JBarrett  JSrowning 


age,  is  scarcely  likely  to  have  already  been 
the  father  of  the  two  children  assigned 
him." 

And  there  the  matter  rests.  Having 
told  this  much  I  shall  proceed  to  launch 
forth. 

The  early  years  of  Elizabeth  Barrett's 
life  were  spent  at  Hope  End,  near  Led- 
bury, Herefordshire.  I  visited  the  place 
and  thereby  added  not  only  one  day,  but 
several  to  my  life,  for  Ali  counts  not  the 
days  spent  in  the  chase.  There  is  a  de- 
scription of  Hope  End  written  by  an  emi- 
nent clergyman,  to  whom  I  was  at  once 
attracted  by  his  literary  style.  This  gen- 
tleman's diction  contains  so  much  clear- 
ness, force,  and  elegance  that  I  cannot 
resist  quoting  him  verbatim  :  "  The  resi- 
dentiary buildings  lie  on  the  ascent  of 
the  contiguous  eminences,  whose  pro- 
jecting parts  and  bending  declivitives, 
modelled  by  nature,  display  astonishing 
harmoniousness.  It  contains  an  elegant 
profusion  of  wood,  disposed  in  the  most 
careless  yet  pleasing  order  ;  much  of  the 
S 


JElt3abetb  .iBarrett  JBrownmg 

park  and  its  scenery  is  in  view  of  the 
residence,  from  which  vantage  point  it 
presents  a  most  agreeable  appearance  to 
the  enraptured  beholder."  So  there  you 
have  it ! 

Here  Elizabeth  Barrett  lived  until  she 
was  twenty.  She  never  had  a  childhood 
— 't  was  dropped  out  of  her  life  in  some 
way,  and  a  Greek  grammar  inlaid  instead. 
Of  her  mother  we  know  little.  She  is 
never  quoted ;  never  referred  to ;  her 
wishes  were  so  whisperingly  expressed 
that  they  have  not  reached  us.  She 
glides  a  pale  shadow  across  the  diary 
pages.  Her  husband's  will  was  to  her 
supreme  ;  his  whim  her  conscience.  We 
know  that  she  was  sad,  often  ill,  that 
she  bore  eight  children.  She  passed  out 
seemingly  unwept,  unhonored,  and  un- 
sung, after  a  married  existence  of  sixteen 
years. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  had  the  same  number 

of  brothers  and  sisters  that  Shakespeare 

had  ;  and  we  know  no  more  of  the  seven 

Barretts  who  were  swallowed  by  oblivion 

9 


3Eli3abetb  .tBarrett  Browning 


than  we  do  of  the  seven  Shakespeares 
that  went  not  astray. 

Edward  Moulton  Barrett  had  a  sort  of 
fierce,  passionate,  jealous  affection  for  his 
daughter  Elizabeth.  He  set  himself  the 
task  of  educating  her  from  her  very  baby- 
hood. He  was  her  constant  companion, 
her  tutor,  adviser,  friend.  When  six 
years  old  she  studied  Greek,  and  when 
nine  made  translations  in  verse.  Mr. 
Barrett  looked  on  this  sort  of  thing  with 
much  favor,  and  tightened  his  discipline, 
reducing  the  little  girl's  hours  for  study  to 
a  system  as  severe  as  the  laws  of  Draco. 
Of  course  the  child's  health  broke.  From 
her  thirteenth  year  she  appears  to  us  like 
a  beautiful  spirit  with  an  astral  form  ;  or 
she  would,  did  we  not  perceive  that  this 
beautiful  form  is  being  racked  with  pain. 
No  wonder  some  one  has  asked,  "  Where 
then  was  the  Society  for  the  Preven- 
tion of  Cruelty  to  Children  ?  " 

But  this  brave  spirit  did  not  much  com- 
plain. She  had  a  will  as  strong  as  her 
father's,  and  felt  a  Spartan  pride  in 
10 


£li3abetb  JSarrctt  drowning 

doing  all  that  he  asked  and  a  little  more. 
She  studied,  wrote,  translated,  read,  and 
thought.  And  to  spur  her  on  and  to 
stimulate  her,  Mr.  Barrett  published 
several  volumes  of  her  work — immature, 
pedantic  work — but  still  it  had  a  certain 
glow  and  gave  promise  of  the  things  yet 
to  come. 

One  marked  event  in  the  life  of  Eliza- 
beth Barrett  occurred  when  Hugh  Stuart 
Boyd  arrived  at  Hope  End.  He  was  a 
fine  sensitive  soul  ;  a  poet  by  nature  and 
a  Greek  scholar  of  repute.  He  came  on 
Mr.  Barrett's  invitation  to  take  Mr.  Bar- 
rett's place  as  tutor.  The  young  girl  was 
confined  to  her  bed  through  the  advice  of 
physicians  ;  Boyd  was  blind. 

Here  was  at  once  a  bond  of  sympathy. 
No  doubt  this  break  in  the  monotony  of 
her  life  gave  fresh  courage  to  the  fair 
young  woman.  The  gentle  sightless  poet 
relaxed  the  severe  hours  of  study.  In- 
stead of  grim  digging  in  musty  tomes  they 
talked  :  he  sat  by  her  bedside  holding 
the  thin  hands  (for  the  blind  see  by  the 
11 


Blfjabetb  JBarrett  Browning 


sense  of  touch)  and  they  talked  for  hours 
—or  were  silent,  which  served  as  well. 
Then  she  would  read  to  the  blind  man 
and  he  would  recite  to  her,  for  he  had 
blind  Homer's  memory.  She  grew  bet- 
ter, and  the  doctors  said  that  if  she 
had  taken  her  medicine  regularly  and 
not  insisted  on  getting  up  and  walking 
about  as  guide  for  the  blind  man  she 
might  have  gotten  entirely  well. 

In  that  fine  poem  Wine  of  Cypress,  ad- 
dressed to  Boyd,  we  see  how  she  acknowl- 
edges his  goodness.  There  is  no  wine 
equal  to  the  wine  of  friendship  ;  and  love 
is  only  friendship — plus  something  else. 
There  is  nothing  so  hygienic  as  friend- 
ship. 

Hell  is  a  separation,  and  Heaven  is  only 
a  going  home  to  our  friends. 

Mr.  Barrett's  fortune  was  invested  in 
sugar  plantations  in  Jamaica.  Through 
the  emancipation  of  the  blacks  his  for- 
tune took  to  itself  wings.  He  had  to 
give  up  his  splendid  country  home — to 
break  old  ties.     It  was  decided  that  the 

12 


Bltsabetb  JSarrett  ^Browning 


family  should  move  to  London.  Eliza- 
beth had  again  taken  to  her  bed.  Four 
men  bore  the  mattress  on  which  she  lay 
down  the  steps  ;  one  man  might  have 
carried  her  alone,  for  she  weighed  only 
eighty-five  pounds,  so  they  say. 


13 


Ii. 


CRABB  ROBINSON,  who  knew 
everything  and  everybody,  being 
very  much  such  a  man  as  John 
Kenyon,  has  left  on  record  the  fact  that 
Mr.  Kenyon  had  a  face  like  a  Benedictine 
monk,  a  wit  that  never  lagged,  a  gener- 
ous heart,  and  a  tongue  that  ran  like  an 
Alpine  cascade. 

A  razor  with  which  you  cannot  shave 
may  have  better  metal  in  it  than  one  with 
a  perfect  edge.  One  has  been  sharpened 
and  the  other  not.  And  I  am  very  sure 
that  the  men  who  write  best  do  not 
necessarily  know  the  most  ;  fate  has  put 
an  edge  on  them — that  's  all.  A  good 
kick  may  start  a  stone  rolling,  when 
otherwise  it  rests  on  the  mountain  side 
for  a  generation. 

Kenyon  was  one  type  of  the  men 
14 


£Ii3abctb  3Barrctt  JSrownfmi 


who  rest  on  the  mountain  side.  He 
dabbled  in  poetry,  wrote  book  reviews, 
collected  rare  editions,  attended  first 
nights,  spoke  mysteriously  of  "  stuff"  he 
was  workiug  on  ;  and  sometimes  confi- 
dentially told  his  lady  friends  of  his  in- 
tention to  bring  it  out  when  he  had  gotten 
it  into  shape,  asking  their  advice  as  to 
bindings,  etc. 

This  kind  of  men  rarely  bring  out  their 
stuff,  for  the  reason  that  they  never  get 
it  into  shape.  When  they  refer  to  the 
novel  they  have  on  the  stocks  they  refer 
to  a  novel  they  intend  to  write.  It  is  yet 
in  the  ink  bottle.  And  there  it  remains — 
all  for  the  want  of  one  good  kick — but 
perhaps  it 's  just  as  well. 

Yet  these  friendly  beings  are  very  use- 
ful members  of  society.  They  are  brighter 
companions  and  better  talkers  than  the 
men  who  exhaust  themselves  in  creative 
work  and  favor  their  friends  at  odd  times, 
with  choice  samples  of  literary  irritability. 
John  Kenyou  wrote  a  few  bright  little 
things  but  his  best  work  was  in  the  en- 
15 


BUsabetb  JBarrett  drowning 

couragemeut  lie  gave  to  others.  He 
sought  out  all  literary  lious  and  tamed 
them  with  his  steady  glance.  They  liked 
his  prattle  and  good  cheer  and  he  liked 
them  for  many  reasons.  One  of  which 
was  because  he  could  go  away  and  tell 
how  he  advised  them  about  this,  that,  and 
the  other.     Then  he  fed  them  too. 

And  so  unrivalled  was  Kenyon  in  this 
line  that  he  won  for  himself  the  title  of 
The  Feeder  of  Lions.  Now  John  Kenyon, 
rich,  idle,  bookish,  and  generous,  saw  in 
the  magazines  certain  fine  little  poems 
by  one  Elizabeth  Barrett.  He  also  ascer- 
tained that  she  had  published  several 
books.  Mr.  Kenyon  bought  one  of  these 
volumes  and  sent  it  by  a  messenger  with 
a  little  note  to  Miss  Barrett  telling  how 
much  he  had  enjoyed  it,  and  craved  that 
she  would  inscribe  her  name  and  his  on 
the  fly-leaf  and  return  by  bearer.  Of 
course  she  complied  with  such  a  modest 
request  so  gracefully  expressed  ;  these 
things  are  balm  to  poets'  souls.  Next, 
Mr.  Kenyon  called  to  thank  Miss  Barrett 
ro 


Elt3abctb  JBarrett  JBrowntng 

for  the  autograph.  Soon  after  he  wrote 
to  inform  her  of  a  startling  fact  that  he 
had  just  discovered  :  they  were  kinsmen, 
cousins  or  something — a  little  removed, 
but  cousins  still.  In  a  few  weeks  they 
wrote  letters  back  and  forth  beginning 
thus :  Dear  Cousin. 

And  I  am  glad  of  this  cousinly  arrange- 
ment between  lonely  young  people. 
They  grasp  at  it ;  and  it  gives  an  excuse 
for  a  bit  of  closer  relationship  than  could 
otherwise  exist  with  propriety.  Goodness 
me!  is  he  not  my  cousin?  of  course  he 
may  call  as  often  as  he  chooses.  It  is  his 
right. 

But  let  me  explain  here  that  at  this 
time  Mr.  Kenyon  was  not  so  very  young 
— that  is  he  was  not  absurdly  young  :  he 
was  fifty.  But  men  who  really  love 
books  always  have  young  hearts.  Ken- 
you's  father  left  him  a  fortune,  no  troubles 
had  ever  come  his  way  and  his  was  not 
the  temperament  that  searches  them  out. 
He  dressed  young,  looked  young,  acted 
young,  felt  young. 

17 


Bli^abctb  .ISarrctt  JSrownin^ 

No  doubt  John  Kenyon  siucerely  ad- 
mired Elizabeth  Barrett,  and  prized  her 
work.  And  while  she  read  his  mind  a 
deal  more  understandingly  than  he  did 
her  poems,  she  was  grateful  for  his  kindly 
attention  and  well-meant  praise.  He  set 
about  to  get  her  poems  into  better  maga- 
zines and  find  better  publishers  for  her 
work.  He  was  not  a  gifted  poet  himself, 
but  to  dance  attendance  on  one  afforded 
a  gratification  to  his  artistic  impulse. 
He  could  not  write  sublime  verse  himself 
but  he  could  tell  others  how.  So  Miss 
Barrett  showed  her  poems  to  Mr.  Kenyon 
and  Mr.  Kenyon  advised  that  the  P's  be 
made  bolder  and  the  tails  to  the  Q's  be 
lengthened.  He  also  bought  her  a  new 
kind  of  MS.  paper  over  which  a  quill  pen 
would  glide  with  glee  ;  it  was  the  kind 
Byron  used.  But  best  of  all  Mr.  Kenyon 
brought  his  friends  to  call  on  Miss  Bar- 
rett ;  and  many  of  these  friends  were  men 
with  good  literary  instincts.  The  meet- 
ing with  these  strong  minds  was  no  doubt 
a  great  help  to  the  little  lady,   shut  up 


Blisabetb  .tSartctt  .tSrowmmi 

in  a  big  house  and  living  largely  in 
dreams. 

Mary  Russell  Mitford  was  in  London 
about  this  time  on  a  little  visit  and  of 
course  was  sought  out  by  John  Kenyon, 
who  took  her  sight-seeing.  She  was  fifty 
years  old  too  ;  she  spoke  of  herself  as  an 
old  maid  but  did  n't  allow  others  to. 
Friends  always  spoke  of  her  as  "  Little 
Miss  Mitford,"  not  because  she  was  little 
but  because  she  acted  so.  Among  other 
beautiful  sights  Mr.  Kenyon  wished  to 
show  gushing  little  Mary  Mitford  was  a 
Miss  Barrett  who  wrote  things.  So  to- 
gether the}7  called  on  Miss  Barrett. 

Little  Miss  Mitford  looked  at  the  pale 
face  in  its  frame  of  dark  curls,  lying  back 
among  the  pillows.  Little  Miss  Mitford 
bowed  and  said  it  was  a  fine  day  ;  then 
she  went  right  over  and  kissed  Miss  Bar- 
rett, and  these  two  women  held  each 
other's  hands  and  talked  until  Mr.  Ken- 
yon twisted  nervously  and  hinted  that  it 
was  time  to  go. 

Miss  Barrett  had  not  been  out  for  two 
19 


£li3abctb  3Barrett  JBrowning 


months,  but  now  these  two  insisted  that 
she  should  go  with  them.  The  carriage 
was  at  the  door,  they  would  support  her 
very  tenderly,  Mr.  Kenyon  himself  would 
drive — so  there  could  be  no  accidents  and 
they  would  bring  her  back  the  moment 
she  was  tired.  So  they  went,  did  these 
three,  and  as  Mr.  Kenyon  himself  drove 
there  were  no  accidents. 

I  can  imagine  that  James  the  coachman 
gave  up  the  reins  that  day  with  only  an 
inward  protest,  and  after  looking  down 
and  smiling  reassurance  Mr.  Kenyon 
drove  slowly  towards  the  Park ;  Little 
Miss  Mitford  forgot  her  promise  not  to 
talk  incessantly  ;  and  the  *'  dainty  white 
porcelain  lady  "  brushed  back  the  raven 
curls  from  time  to  time  and  nodded  indul- 
gently. 

Not  long  ago  I  called  at  Number  74 
Gloucester  Place,  where  the  Barretts  lived. 
It  is  a  plain,  solid  brick  Louse,  built  just 
like  the  ten  thousand  other  brick  houses 
in  London  where  well-to-do  tradesmen 
live.  The  people  who  now  occupy  the 
20 


Elijabetb  JBarrett  ;J6rowntncj 


house  never  beard  of  the  Barretts  and 
surely  do  not  belong  to  a  Browning  Club. 
I  was  told  tbat  if  I  wanted  to  know  any- 
thing about  the  place  I  should  apply  to 
the  "  Agent  "  whose  name  is  'Opkins 
and  whose  office  is  in  Clifford  Court,  off 
Fleet  Street.  The  house  probably  has 
not  changed  in  any  degree  in  these  fifty 
years,  since  little  Miss  Mitford  on  one 
side  and  Mr.  Kenyon  on  the  other,  ten- 
derly helped  Miss  Barrett  down  the  steps 
and  into  the  carriage. 

I  lingered  about  Gloucester  Place  for 
an  hour,  but  finding  that  I  was  beiug  fur- 
tively shadowed  by  various  servants,  and 
discovering  further  that  a  policeman  had 
been  summoned  to  look  after  my  case,  I 
moved  on. 

That  night  after  the  ride  Miss  Mitford 
wrote  a  letter  home  and  among  other 
things  she  said  :  "  I  called  to-day  at  a 
Mr.  Barrett's.  The  eldest  daughter  is 
about  twenty-five.  She  has  some  spinal 
affection,  but  she  is  a  charming,  sweet 
young  woman  who  reads  Greek  as  I  do 

21 


J6li3abetb  36arrctt  JSrownlng 


French.  She  has  published  some  trans- 
lations from  ^Eschylus  and  some  striking 
poems.  She  is  a  delightful  creature,  shy, 
timid,  and  modest." 

The  next  day  Mr.  Kenyon  gave  a  little 
dinner  in  honor  of  Miss  Mitford,  who  was 
the  author  of  a  great  book  called  Our 
Village.  That  night  when  Miss  Mitford 
wrote  her  usual  letter  to  the  folks  down 
in  the  country,  telling  how  she  was  get- 
ting along,  she  described  this  dinner 
party.  She  says:  "Wordsworth  was 
there — an  adorable  old  man.  Then  there 
was  Walter  Savage  Landor  too,  as  splen- 
did a  person  as  Mr.  Kenyon  himself,  but 
not  so  full  of  sweetness  and  sympathy. 
But  best  of  all,  the  charming  Miss  Barrett, 
who  translated  the  most  difficult  of  the 
Greek  plays — Prometheus  Bound.  She 
has  written  most  exquisite  poems,  too,  in 
almost  every  modern  style.  She  is  so 
sweet,  and  gentle,  and  so  pretty  that  one 
looks  at  her  as  if  she  were  some  bright 
flower." 

Then    in  another  letter  Miss   Mitford 


J£ti3abetb  Barrett  .iSrowntna 

adds  :  "  She  is  of  a  slight,  delicate  figure, 
with  a  shower  of  dark  curls  falling  on 
either  side  of  a  most  expressive  face ; 
large  tender  eyes,  richly  fringed  by  dark 
lashes  ;  a  smile  like  a  sunbeam  and  such 
a  look  of  youthfulness  that  I  had  some 
difficulty  in  persuading  a  friend  that  she 
was  really  the  translator  of  sEschylns 
and  the  author  of  the  Essay  on  Mind." 

When  Miss  Mitford  went  back  home 
she  wrote  Miss  Barrett  a  letter  'most  every 
day.  She  addresses  her  as  ' '  My  Sweet 
Love,"  "My  Dearest  Sweet,"  and  "  My 
Sweetest  Dear."  She  declares  her  to  be 
the  best,  gentlest,  strongest,  sanest,  no- 
blest, and  most  spiritual  of  all  living 
persons.  And  moreover  she  wrote  these 
things  to  others  and  published  them  in 
reviews.  She  gave  Elizabeth  Barrett 
much  good  advice  and  some  not  so  good. 
Among  other  things  she  says :  ' '  Your 
one  fault,  my  dear,  is  obscurity.  You 
must  be  simple  and  plain.  Think  of  the 
stupidest  person  of  your  acquaintance, 
and  when  you  have  made  your  words  so 
23 


JEli^abctb  Barrett  JBrownins 


clear  that  you  are  sure  lie  will  under- 
stand you  may  venture  to  hope  it  will  be 
understood  by  others." 

I  hardly  think  that  this  advice  caused 
Miss  Barrett  to  bring  her  lines  down  to 
the  level  of  the  stupidest  person  she  knew. 
She  continued  to  write  just  as  she  chose. 
Yet  she  was  grateful  for  Miss  Mitford's 
glowing  friendship,  and  all  the  pretty 
gush  was  accepted,  although  perhaps 
with  good  large  pinches  of  the  Syracuse 
product. 

Of  course  there  are  foolish  people  who 
assume  that  gushing  women  are  shallow, 
but  this  is  jumping  at  conclusions.  A 
recent  novel  gives  us  a  picture  of  "  a  tall 
soldier,"  who,  in  camp,  was  very  full  of 
brag  and  bluster.  We  are  quite  sure  that 
when  the  fight  comes  on  this  man  with 
the  lubricated  tongue  will  prove  an  arrant 
coward  ;  we  assume  he  will  run  at  the 
first  smell  of  smoke.  But  we  are  wrong 
— he  stuck  ;  and  when  the  flag  was  car- 
ried down  in  the  rush,  he  rescued  it  and 
bore  it  bravely  so  far  to  the  front  that 
24 


Elisabeth  .IGarrett  jfBrownina 

when  he  came  back  he  brought  another — 
the  tawdry  red  flag  of  the  enemy  ! 

I  slip  this  in  here  just  to  warn  hasty 
folk  against  the  assumption  that  talkative 
people  are  necessarily  vacant-minded. 
Man  has  a  many-sided  nature,  and  like 
the  moon,  reveals  only  certain  phases  at 
certain  times.  And  as  there  is  one  side 
of  the  moon  that  is  never  revealed  at  all 
to  dwellers  on  the  planet  Earth,  so  mor- 
tals may  unconsciously  conceal  certain 
phases  of  soul-stuff  from  each  other. 

Miss  Barrett  seems  to  have  written 
more  letters  and  longer  ones  to  Miss  Mit- 
ford  than  to  any  of  her  other  correspond- 
ents, save  one.  Yet  she  was  aware  of  this 
rather  indiscreet  woman's  limitations  and 
wrote  down  to  her  understanding. 

To  Richard  H.  Home  she  wrote  freely 
and  at  her  intellectual  best.  With  this 
all  'round  gifted  man  she  kept  up  a  cor- 
respondence for  many  years  ;  and  her  let- 
ters now  published  in  two  stout  volumes 
afford  a  literary  history  of  the  time.  At 
the  risk  of  being  accused  of  lack  of  taste, 
25 


Elisabeth  .Barrett  Xrownfng 


I  wish  to  say  that  these  letters  of  Miss 
Barrett's  are  a  deal  more  interesting  to 
me  than  any  of  her  long  poems.  They 
reveal  the  many-sided  qualities  of  the 
writer,  and  show  the  workings  of  her 
mind  in  various  moods.  Poetry  is  such 
an  exacting  form  that  it  never  allows  the 
author  to  appear  in  dressing-gown  and 
slippers  ;  neither  can  he  call  over  the 
back  fence  to  his  neighbor  without  loss 
of  dignity. 

Home  was  author,  editor,  and  pub- 
lisher. His  middle  name  was  Henry, 
but  following  that  peculiar  penchant  of 
the  ink-stained  fraternity  to  play  flim- 
flam with  their  names,  he  changed  the 
Henry  to  Hengist ;  so  we  now  see  it  writ 
thus  :  R.  Hengist  Home. 

He  found  a  market  for  Miss  Barrett's 
wares.  More  properly  he  insisted  that 
she  should  write  certain  things  to  fit  cer- 
tain publications  in  which  he  was  inter- 
ested. They  collaborated  in  writing 
several  books.  They  met  very  seldom, 
and  their  correspondence  has  a  fine 
26 


Bli^abetb  JSarrctt  JBrowntng 


friendly  flavor  about  it,  tempered  with 
a  disinterestedness  that  is  unique.  They 
encourage  each  other,  criticise  each 
other.  They  rail  at  each  other  in  witty 
quips  and  quirks,  and  at  times  the  air  is 
so  full  of  gibes  that  it  looks  as  if  a  quar- 
rel were  appearing  on  the  horizon — no 
bigger  than  a  man's  hand — but  the  storm 
always  passes  in  a  gentle  shower  of  re- 
freshing compliments. 

Meantime  dodging  in  and  out  we  see 
the  handsome,  gracious,  and  kindly  John 
Kenyon. 

Much  of  the  time  Miss  Barrett  lived  in 
a  darkened  room,  seeing  no  one  but  her 
nurse,  the  physician,  and  her  father. 
Fortune  had  smiled  again  on  Edward 
Barrett — a  legacy  had  come  his  way,  and 
although  he  no  longer  owned  the  black 
men  in  Jamaica,  yet  they  were  again 
working  for  him.  Sugar-cane  mills 
ground  slow,  but  small. 

The  brilliant  daughter  had  blossomed 
in  intellect  until  she  was  beyond  her 
teacher.  She  was  so  far  ahead  that  he 
27 


Blijabctb  Barrett  drowning 

called  to  her  to  wait  for  him.  He  could 
read  Greek  ;  she  coirid  compose  iu  it. 
But  she  preferred  her  native  tongue  as 
every  scholar  should.  Now,  Mr.  Barrett 
was  jealous  of  the  fame  of  his  daughter. 
The  passion  of  father  for  daughter,  of 
mother  for  son — there  is  often  something 
very  lover-like  in  it— a  deal  of  whimsy  ! 
Miss  Barrett's  darkened  room  had  been 
illumined  by  a  light  that  the  gruff  and 
goodly  merchant  wist  not  of.  Loneliness 
and  solitude  and  physical  pain  and  heart- 
hunger  had  taught  her  things  that  no 
book  recorded  nor  tutor  knew.  Her 
father  could  not  follow  her  ;  her  allu- 
sions were  obscure,  he  said,  wilfully  ob- 
scure ;  she  was  growing  perverse. 

Love  is  a  pain  at  times.  To  ease  the 
hurt  the  lover  would  hurt  the  beloved. 
He  badgers  her,  pinches  her,  provokes 
her.  One  step  more  and  he  may  kill 
her. 

Edward  Barrett's  daughter,  she  of 
the  raven  curls  and  gentle  ways,  was 
reaching  a  point  where  her  father's  love 
38 


Blisabetb  Barrett  JSrowntng 

was  not  her  life.  A  good  way  to  drive 
love  away  is  to  be  jealous.  He  had  seen 
it  coming  years  before  ;  he  brooded  over 
it ;  the  calamity  was  upon  him.  Her 
fame  was  growing  :  someone  called  her 
the  Shakespeare  of  women.  First  her 
books  had  been  published  at  her  father's 
expense  ;  next,  editors  were  willing  to 
run  their  own  risks,  and  now  messengers 
with  bank-notes  waited  at  the  door  and 
begged  to  exchange  the  bank-notes  for 
MS.  John  Kenyon  said,  "I  told  you  so," 
but  Edward  Barrett  scowled.  He  accused 
her  foolishly  ;  he  attempted  to  dictate  to 
her — she  must  use  this  ink  or  that. 
Why?  Because  he  said  so.  He  quar- 
relled with  her  to  ease  the  love-hurt  that 
was  smarting  in  his  heart. 

Poor  little  pale-faced  poet !  earthly 
success  has  nothing  left  for  thee !  Thy 
thoughts,  too  great  for  speech,  fall  on 
dull  ears.  Even  thy  father,  for  whom 
thou  first  took  up  pen  doth  not  under- 
stand thee,  and  a  mother's  love  thou  hast 
never  known.  And  fame  without  love — 
29 


j£U3abctb  JBarrctt  drowning 

how  barren  !  Heaven  is  thy  home.  Let 
slip  thy  thin,  white  hands  on  the  thread 
of  life  and  glide  gently  out  at  ebb  of  tide 
— out  into  the  unknown.  It  cannot  but 
be  better  than  this — God  understands ! 
Compose  thy  troubled  spirit,  give  up  thy 
vain  hopes.  See  !  thy  youth  is  past, 
little  woman  ;  look  closely  !  there  are 
grey  hairs  in  thy  locks,  thy  face  is 
marked  with  lines  of  care,  and  have  I 
not  seen  signs  of  winter  in  thy  veins  ? 
Earth  holds  naught  for  thee.  Come, 
take  thy  pen  and  write,  just  a  last  good- 
bye, a  tender  farewell,  such  as  thou  alone 
canst  say.  Then  fold  thy  thin  hands, 
and  make  peace  with  all  by  passing  out 
and  away,  out  and  away — God  under- 
stands ! 


30 


III. 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  was  thirty- 
seven,  and  Miss  Mitford,  up  to 
London  from  the  country  for  a 
couple  of  days,  wrote  home  that  she  had 
lost  her  winsome  beauty. 

John  Kenyon  had  turned  well  into 
sixty,  but  he  carried  his  years  in  a  jaunty 
way.  He  wore  a  moss-rose  bud  in  the 
lapel  of  his  well-fitting  coat.  His  linen 
was  immaculate,  and  the  only  change 
people  saw  in  him  was  that  he  wore 
spectacles  in  place  of  a  monocle. 

The  physicians  allowed  Mr.  Kenyon  to 
visit  the  Darkened  Room  whenever  he 
chose,  for  he  never  stayed  so  very  long, 
neither  was  he  ever  the  bearer  of  bad 
news. 

Did  the  greatest  poetess  of  the  age  (tem- 
porarily slightly  iudisposed)  know  one 
31 


£li3abetb  ^Barrett  JBrowntng 


Browning — Robert  Browning,  a  writer 
of  verse  ?  Why,  no  ;  she  had  never  met 
him,  but  of  course  she  knew  of  him,  and 
had  read  everything  he  had  written.  He 
had  sent  her  one  of  his  books  once.  He 
surely  was  a  man  of  brilliant  parts — so 
strong  and  far-seeing  !  He  lives  in  Italy, 
with  the  monks,  they  say.  What  a  pity 
that  English  people  do  not  better  appre- 
ciate him  ! 

"But  he  may  succeed  yet,"  said  Mr. 
Kenyon.     "  He  is  not  old." 

"  Oh,  of  course  such  genius  must  some 
day  be  recognized.  But  he  may  be  gone 
then — how  old  did  you  say  he  was?  " 

Mr.  Kenyon  had  not  said  ;  but  he  now 
explained  that  Mr.  Browning  was  thirty- 
four,  that  is  to  say,  just  the  age  of  him- 
self, ahem  !  Furthermore,  Mr.  Browning 
did  not  live  in  Italy — that  is,  not  now,  for 
at  that  present  moment  he  was  in  Lon- 
don. In  fact,  Mr.  Kenyon  had  lunched 
with  him  an  hour  before.  The}'  had 
talked  of  Miss  Barrett  (for  who  else  was 
there  among  women  worth  talking  of!) 
32 


Bli3abctb  Barrett  JBrownfng 


and  Mr.  Browning  had  expressed  a  wish 
to  see  her.  Mr.  Keuyou  had  expressed  a 
wish  that  Mr.  Browning  should  see  her, 
and  now  if  Miss  Barrett  would  express 
a  wish  that  Mr.  Browning  should  call  and 
see  her,  why,  Mr.  Kenyou  would  fetch 
him — doctors  or  no  doctors. 

And  he  fetched  him. 

And  I  'm  glad,  are  n't  you  ? 

Now  Robert  Browning  was  not  at  all 
of  the  typical  poet  type.  In  stature  he 
was  rather  short  ;  his  frame  was  compact 
and  muscular.  In  his  youth  he  had  been 
a  wrestler — carrying  away  laurels  of  a 
different  sort  from  those  which  he  was 
to  wear  later.  His  features  were  inclined 
to  be  heavy  ;  in  repose  his  face  was  dull 
and  there  was  no  fire  in  his  glance.  He 
wore  loose-fitting  plain  grey  clothes,  a 
slouch  hat,  and  thick-soled  shoes.  At 
first  look  you  would  have  said  he  was  a 
well-fed,  well-to-do  country  squire.  On 
closer  acquaintance  you  would  have  been 
impressed  with  his  dignity,  his  perfect 
poise,  and  fine  reserve.  And  did  you 
33 


TEli&beih  JBarrett  JSrownfng 


come  to  know  him  well  enough  you 
would  have  seen  that  beneath  that  seem- 
ingly phlegmatic  outside  there  was  a 
spiritual  nature  so  sensitive  and  tender 
that  it  responded  to  all  the  finer  thrills 
that  play  across  the  souls  of  men.  Yet 
if  there  ever  was  a  man  who  did  not 
wear  his  heart  upon  his  sleeve  for  daws 
to  peck  at,  it  was  Robert  Browning.  He 
was  clean,  wholesome,  manly,  healthy 
inside  and  out.     He  was  master  of  self. 

Of  course  the  gentle  reader  is  sure  that 
the  next  act  will  show  a  tender  love 
scene.  And  were  I  dealing  with  the 
lives  of  Peter  Smith  and  Martha  the 
milkmaid,  the  gentle  reader  might  be 
right. 

But  the  love  of  Robert  Browning  and 
Elizabeth  Barrett  is  an  instance  of  the 
Divine  Passion.  Take  off  thy  shoes,  for 
the  place  whereon  thou  staudest  is  holy 
ground  !  This  man  and  woman  had  got- 
ten well  beyond  the  first  flush  of  youth  ; 
there  was  a  joining  of  intellect  and  soul 
which  approaches  the  ideal.  I  cannot 
34 


Elizabeth  Barrett  ttrowning 


imagine  anything  so  preposterous  as  a 
"proposal"  passing  between  them;  I 
cannot  conceive  a  condition  of  hesitancy 
and  timidity  leading  up  to  a  dam-burst- 
ing "avowal."  They  met,  looked  into 
each  other's  eyes,  and  each  there  read 
his  fate  :  no  coyness,  no  affectation,  no 
fencing — they  loved.  Each  at  once  felt 
a  heart-rest  in  the  other.  Each  had  at 
last  found  the  other  self. 

That  exquisite  series  of  poems,  Sonnets 
from  the  Portuguese,  written  by  Eliza- 
beth Barrett  before  her  marriage  and  pre- 
sented to  her  husband  afterward,  were 
all  told  to  him  over  and  over  by  the  look 
from  her  eyes,  the  pressure  of  her  hands, 
and  in  gentle  words  (or  silence)  that 
knew  neither  shame  nor  embarrassment. 

And  now  it  seems  to  me  that  some- 
where in  these  pages  I  said  that  friend- 
ship was  essentially  hygienic.  I  wish  to 
make  that  remark  again,  and  to  put  it  in 
italics.  The  Divine  Passion  implies  the 
most  exalted  form  of  friendship  that  man 
can  imagine. 

35 


Bli3abetb  Barrett  JSrownfng 

Elizabeth  Barrett  ran  up  the  shades 
and  flung  open  the  shutters.  The  sun- 
light came  dancing  through  the  apart- 
ment, flooding  each  dark  corner  and 
driving  out  all  the  shadows  that  lurked 
therein.  It  was  no  longer  a  darkened 
room. 

The  doctor  was  indiguant :  the  nurse 
resigned. 

Miss  Mitford  wrote  back  to  the  country 
that  Miss  Barrett  was  "really  looking 
better  than  she  had  for  years." 

As  for  poor  Edward  Moulton  Barrett 
— he  raved.  He  tried  to  quarrel  with 
Robert  Browning,  and  had  there  been 
only  a  callow  youth  with  whom  to  deal 
Browning  would  have  simply  been  kicked 
down  the  steps,  and  that  would  have  been 
an  end  of  it.  But  Browning  had  an  even 
pulse,  a  calm  eye,  and  a  temper  that  was 
imperturbable.  His  will  was  quite  as 
strong  as  Mr.  Barrett's. 

And  so  it  was  just  a  plain  runaway 
match — the  ideal  thing  after  all.  One 
day  when  the  father  was  out  of  the  way 
36 


;6lt3abetb  JBarrett  ^Browning 


they  took  a  cab  to  Marlybone  Parish 
Church  and  were  married.  The  bride 
went  home  alone,  and  it  was  a  week  be- 
fore her  husband  saw  her ;  because  he 
would  not  be  a  hypocrite  and  go  ask  for 
her  by  her  maiden  name.  And  had  he 
gone,  rung  the  bell  and  asked  to  see 
Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  no  one  would 
have  known  whom  he  wanted.  At  the 
end  of  the  week  the  bride  stole  down  the 
steps  alone,  leading  her  dog  Flush  by  a 
string,  and  met  her  lover-husband  on  the 
corner.  Next  day  they  wrote  back  from 
Calais,  asking  forgiveness  and  craving 
blessings  after  the  good  old  custom  of 
Gretna  Green.  But  Edward  Moulton 
Barrett  did  not  forgive — still,  who  cares  ! 

Yet  we  do  care,  too,  for  we  regret  that 
this  man,  so  strong  and  manly  in  many 
ways,  could  not  be  reconciled  to  this  ex- 
alted love.  Old  men  who  nurse  wrath 
are  pitiable  sights.  Why  could  not  Mr. 
Barrett  have  followed  the  example  of 
John  Kenyon  ? 

Kenyon  commands  both  our  sympathy 
37 


J6lt3at>etb  .tSarrett  JBrowning 


and  admiration.  When  the  news  came 
to  him  that  Robert  Browning  and  Eliza- 
beth Barrett  were  gone,  it  is  said  that  he 
sobbed  like  a  youth  to  whom  has  come  a 
great,  strange  sorrow.  For  months  he 
was  not  known  to  smile,  yet  after  a  year 
he  visited  the  happy  home  in  Florence. 
When  John  Kenyou  died  he  left  by  his 
will  fifty  thousand  dollars  "to  my  be- 
loved and  loving  friends,  Robert  Brown- 
ing and  Elizabeth  Barrett,  his  wife." 

The  old-time  novelists  always  left  their 
couples  at  the  church  door.  It  was  not 
safe  to  follow  further — they  wished  to 
make  a  pleasant  story.  It  seems  meet  to 
take  our  leave  of  the  bride  and  groom 
at  the  church  :  life  often  ends  there. 
However,  it  sometimes  is  the  place 
where  life  really  begins.  It  was  so 
with  Elizabeth  Barrett  and  Robert  Brown- 
ing— they  had  merely  existed  before  ; 
now  they  began  to  live. 

Much,  very  much  has  been  written  con- 
cerning this  ideal  mating,  and  of  the  life 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Browning  in  Italy.  But 
3S 


j£It3abctb  JBarrett  JBrownincj 


why  should  I  write  of  the  things  of  which 
George  William  Curtis,  Kate  Field,  An- 
thony Trollope,  and  James  T.  Fields  have 
written  ?  No,  we  will  leave  the  happy 
pair  at  the  altar,  in  Marlybone  Parish 
Church,  and  while  the  organ  peals  the 
wedding-march  we  will  tiptoe  softly  out. 


39 


MADAME  GUYON 


41 


To  me  remains  nor  place  nor  time  j 
My  country  is  in  every  clime  ; 
I  can  be  calm  and  free  from  care, 
On  any  shore,  since  God  is  there. 

While  place  we  seek  or  place  we  shun. 
The  soul  finds  happiness  in  none  ; 
But  with  a  God  to  guide  our  way, 
'T  is  equal  joy  to  go  or  stay. 

Could  I  be  cast  where  thou  art  not, 
That  were  indeed  a  dreadful  lot  ; 
But  regions  none  remote  I  call , 
Secure  of  finding  God  in  all. 

God  is  Everywhere. 


1 1  k a  n  x  i ;  m a  u  1 1 :  ih  >  r  v  i  e  r i ;s.  ' 

!|    A;v^,,;./1r,/^.«,rt./;..,,wn- 

MADAME  GUYON. 


MADAME   GUYON. 


JEANNE  MARIE  BOUVIER sat  one 
day  writing  at  her  little  oaken  desk, 
when  her  father  approached  and, 
kissing  her  very  gently  on  the  forehead, 
told  her  that  he  had  arranged  for  her 
marriage,  and  that  her  future  husband 
was  soon  to  arrive.  Jeanne's  fingers  lost 
their  cunning,  the  pen  dropped ;  she 
arose  to  her  feet,  but  her  tongue  was 
dumb. 

Jeanne  Marie  was  only  sixteen,  but 
you  would  have  thought  her  twenty,  for 
she  was  tall  and  dignified — she  was  as 
tall  as  her  father  :  she  was  five  feet  nine. 
She  had  a  splendid  length  of  limb,  hips 
43 


/IfcaDame  Ouson 

that  gave  only  a  suggestion  of  curve  line, 
a  slender  waist,  shapely,  well-poised  neck, 
and  a  head  that  might  have  made  a  Juno 
envious.  The  face  and  brow  were  not 
those  of  Venus — rather  they  belonged 
to  Minerva ;  for  the  nose  was  large,  the 
chin  full,  and  the  mouth  no  pea's  blos- 
som. Her  hair  was  light  brown,  but 
when  the  sun  shone  on  it  people  said  it 
was  red.  It  was  as  generous  in  quantity 
and  unruly  in  habit  as  the  westerly  wind. 
Her  eyes  were  all  colors,  changing  ac- 
cording to  her  mood.  Withal,  she  had 
freckles,  and  no  one  was  ever  so  rash  as 
to  call  her  pretty. 

Jeanne's  father  had  not  kissed  her  for 
two  years,  for  he  was  a  very  busy  man  : 
he  had  no  time  for  soft  demonstration. 
He  was  rich,  he  was  religious,  and  he 
was  looked  upon  as  a  model  citizen  in 
every  way. 

The  daughter  had  grown  like  a  sun- 
flower, and  her  intellect  had  unfolded 
as  a  moss-rose  turns  from  bud  to  blossom. 
This  splendid  girl  had  thought  and 
44 


Aatame  Gut?on 


studied  and  dreamed  dreams.  She  had 
imagined  she  heard  a  voice  speaking  to 
her :  Arise,  Maiden,  and  prepare  thee, 
for  I  have  a  work  for  thee  to  do  ! 

Her  wish  and  her  prayer  was  to  enter 
a  convent,  and  after  consecrating  her- 
self to  God  in  a  way  that  would  allow 
of  no  turning  back,  to  go  forth  and  give 
to  men  and  women  the  messages  that 
had  come  to  her.  And  these  things 
filled  the  heart  of  the  worthy  bourgeois 
with  alarm  ;  so  he  said  to  his  wife  one 
day,  "  That  girl  will  be  a  foot  taller  than  I 
am  in  a  year,  and  even  now,  when  I  give 
her  advice,  she  opens  her  big  eyes  and 
looks  at  me  in  a  way  that  thins  my  words 
to  whey.  She  will  get  us  into  trouble 
yet !  she  may  disgrace  us.  I  think — I 
think  I  '11  find  her  a  husband." 

Yet  that  would  not  have  been  a  diffi- 
cult task.  She  was  loved  by  a  score  of 
youths,  but  had  never  spoken  to  any  of 
them.  They  stood  at  corners  and  sighed 
as  she  walked  by  ;  and  others,  with  relig- 
ious bent,  timed  her  hours  for  mass  and 
45 


Aa&ame  Guvon 


took  positions  in  church  from  whence 
they  could  see  her  kneel.  Others  still 
patrolled  the  narrow  street  that  led  to 
her  home,  with  hopes  that  she  might 
pass  that  way,  so  that  they  might  touch 
the  hem  of  her  garment. 

These  things  were  naught  to  Jeanne 
Marie.  She  had  never  yet  seen  a  man 
for  whose  intellect  she  did  not  have  both 
a  pity  and  a  contempt. 

But  Claude  Bouvier  did  not  pick  a 
husband  for  his  daughter  from  among 
the  simple  youths  of  the  town.  He  wrote 
to  a  bachelor  friend,  Jacques  Guyon  by 
name,  and  told  him  he  could  have  the 
girl  if  he  wanted  her— that  is,  after 
certain  little  preliminaries  had  been 
arranged. 

Now  this  Jacques  Guyon  had  been  at 
the  Bouvier  residence  on  a  visit  three 
months  before,  and  had  looked  the  lass 
over  stealthily  with  peculiar  interest,  and 
had  intimated  that  if  Monsieur  Bouvier 
wished  to  get  rid  of  her  it  could  be 
brought  about.  So  after  some  weeks 
46 


.flfta&ame  Gu^on 


had  passed,  Monsieur  bethought  him  of 
the  offer  of  Jacques  Guyon,  and  he  con- 
cluded that  inasmuch  as  Guyon  was  rich 
and  respectable  it  would  be  a  good  match. 

So  he  wrote  to  Guyon,  and  Guyon 
replied  he  would  come,  probably  within 
a  fortnight— just  as  soon  as  his  rheuma- 
tism got  better. 

Claude  Bouvier  read  the  letter,  and, 
walking  into  the  next  room,  surprised 
Jeanne  Marie  by  kissing  her  tenderly  on 
her  forehead — all  as  herein  truthfully 
recorded. 


47 


II. 


SO  Jacques  Guyou  caine,  came  in  his 
carriage  with  two  servants  riding 
on  horseback  in  front  and  another 
riding  on  horseback  behind.  Jeanne 
Marie  sat  on  the  floor,  tailor  fashion,  up 
in  her  little  room  of  the  old  stone  house 
and  peeked  out  of  the  diamond-paned 
gable  window  very  cautiously  ;  and  she 
was  sorely  disappointed. 

In  some  of  her  dreams  (and  these 
dreams  she  thought  were  very  bad)  she 
had  pictured  a  lover  coming  alone  on  a 
foam-flecked  charger  ;  and  as  the  steed 
paused  the  rider  leaped  lightly  from 
saddle  to  ground,  kissing  his  hand  to 
her  as  she  peeked  through  the  curtains. 
For  he  discovered  her  when  she  hoped 
he  would  not,  bat  she  did  not  care  much 
if  he  did. 

48 


Aadame  <3u£on 


But  Monsieur  Guyon's  eyes  did  not 
search  the  windows.  He  got  out  of  the 
carriage  with  difficulty  and  his  breath 
came  wheezy  and  short  as  he  mounted 
the  steps.  His  complexion  was  dusty 
blue,  his  nose  tinged  with  carmine,  his 
eyes  watery,  and  his  girth  aldermanic. 
He  was  growing  old,  and  saddest  of  all 
he  was  growing  old  rebelliously  and 
therefore  ungracefully — dyeing  his  whisk- 
ers purple. 

That  evening  when  Jeanne  Marie  was 
introduced  to  Monsieur  Guyon  at  dinner 
she  found  him  very  polite  and  very  gra- 
cious. His  breeches  were  real  black  vel- 
vet and  his  stockings  were  silk,  and  the 
buckles  on  his  shoes  polished  silver  and 
the  frill  of  his  shirt  was  finest  lace.  His 
conversation  was  directed  mostly  to 
Jeanne's  father,  so  Jeanne  did  not  feel 
nearly  so  uncomfortable  as  she  had 
expected. 

The  next  day  a  notary  came  and  long 
papers  were  written  out,  and  red  and 
green  seals  placed  on  them,  and  then 
49 


dfcafcame  ©upon 

everybody  held  up  bis  rigbt  band  as  tbe 
notary  mumbled  something,  and  tben 
tbey  all  signed  tbeir  names.  Tbe  room 
seemed  to  be  teetering  up  and  down,  and 
it  looked  quite  like  rain.  Monsieur 
Bouvier  stood  on  bis  tiptoes  and  again 
kissed  bis  daughter  on  the  forehead  and 
Monsieur  Guyon,  taking  her  hand,  lifted 
the  long  slender  fingers  to  his  lips,  and 
told  her  that  she  would  soon  be  a  great 
lady  and  tbe  mistress  of  a  splendid 
mansion  and  have  everything  that  one 
needed  to  make  one  bappy. 

And  so  they  were  married  by  a  bishop, 
with  two  priests  and  three  curates  to 
assist.  Tbe  ceremony  was  held  at  the 
great  stone  church  ;  and  as  the  proces- 
sion came  out,  the  verger  had  a  hard  time 
to  keep  tbe  crowd  back,  so  that  the 
little  girls  in  white  could  go  before  and 
strew  flowers  in  their  pathway.  The 
organ  pealed,  and  the  chimes  clanged 
and  rang  as  if  tbe  tune  and  the  times 
were  out  of  joint ;  then  other  bells  from 
other  parts  of  the  old  town  answered, 
50 


Aa&ame  Ougon 

and  across  the  valley  rang  mellow  and 
soft  the  chapel  bell  of  Moutargis  Castle. 

Jeanne  was  seated  in  the  carriage — how 
she  got  there  she  never  knew  ;  by  her 
side  sat  Jacques  Guyon.  The  postboys 
were  lashing  their  horses  into  a  savage 
run,  like  devils  running  away  with  the 
souls  of  innocents,  and  behind  clattered 
the  mounted  liveried  servant.  People 
on  the  sidewalks  waved  good-byes  and 
called  God-bless-yous.  Soon  the  sleepy 
old  town  was  left  behind  and  the  horses 
slowed  down  to  a  lazy  trot.  Jeanne 
looked  back,  like  Lot's  wife :  only  a 
church  spire  could  be  seen.  She  hoped 
that  she  might  be  turned  into  a  pillar  of 
salt — but  she- was  n't.  She  crouched  into 
the  corner  of  the  seat  and  cried  a  good 
honest  cry. 

Jacques  Guyon  smiled  and  muttered 
to  himself :  "Her  father  said  she  was  a 
bit  stubborn,  but  I '11  see  that  she  gets 
over  it!  " 

And  this  was  over  three  hundred  years 
ago.  It  doesn't  seem  like  it,  but  it  was. 
5i 


m. 

READ  the  lives  of  great  men  and 
you  will  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  it  is  harder  to  find  a  gentle- 
man than  a  genius.  While  the  clock 
ticks  off  the  seconds,  count,  within  five 
minutes,  on  your  fingers  if  you  can  five 
such  gentlemen  as  Sir  Philip  Sidney  ! 
Of  course  I  know  before  you  speak  that 
Fenelon  will  be  first  on  your  tongue. 
Fenelon,  the  low-voiced,  the  mild,  the 
sympathetic,  the  courtly,  the  gracious  ! 
Fenelon,  favored  by  the  gods  with  beauty 
and  far-reaching  intellect  !  Fdnelon  who 
knew  the  gold  of  silence.  Fenelon  on 
whose  lips  dwelt  grace,  and  who  by  the 
magic  of  his  words  had  but  to  speak  to 
be  believed  and  be  beloved. 

When  L,ouis  the  I/ittle  made  that  most 
audacious    blunder    which    cost    France 
52 


dfca&ame  Ougon 


millions  in  treasure  and  untold  loss  in 
men  and  women,  F£nelon  wrote  to  the 
Prime  Minister:  "These  Huguenots 
have  many  virtues  that  must  be  acknow- 
ledged and  conserved.  We  must  hold 
them  by  mildness.  We  cannot  produce 
conformity  by  force.  Converts  made  in 
this  manner  are  hypocrites.  No  power 
is  great  enough  to  bind  the  mind — 
thought  forever  escapes.  Give  civil 
liberty  to  all,  not  by  approving  all  re- 
ligions, but  by  permitting  in  patience 
what  God  allows." 

"  You  shall  go  as  missionary  to  these 
renegades  ! "  was  the  answer — half  ironi- 
cal, half  earnest. 

"  I  will  go  only  on  one  condition." 

"And  that  is?" 

"  That  from  my  province  you  withdraw 
all  armed  men — all  sign  of  compulsion 
of  every  sort !  " 

F£nelon  was  of  noble  blood,  but  his 

sympathies  were  ever  with  the  people. 

The  lowly,  the  weak,  the  oppressed,  the 

persecuted— these  were  ever  the  object  of 

53 


jflfca&ame  ©ugon 


his  solicitude — these  were  first  in  his 
rnind. 

It  was  in  prison  that  Fenelon  first  met 
Madame  Guyon.  Fenelon  was  thirty- 
seven,  she  was  forty.  He  occasionally 
preached  at  Montargis,  and  while  there 
had  heard  of  her  goodness,  her  piety,  her 
fervor,  her  resignation.  He  had  small 
sympathy  for  many  of  her  peculiar  views, 
but  now  she  was  sick  and  in  prison  and 
he  went  to  her  and  admonished  her  to 
hold  fast  and  be  of  good  cheer. 

Twelve  years  before  this  Madame  Guyon 
had  been  left  a  widow.  She  was  the 
mother  of  five  children — two  were  dead. 
The  others  were  placed  under  the  care  of 
kind  kinsmen  ;  and  Madame  Guyon  went 
forth  to  give  her  days  to  study  and  teach- 
ing. This  action  of  placing  her  children 
partially  in  the  care  of  others  has  been 
harshly  criticised .  But  there  is  one  phase 
of  the  subject  that  I  have  never  seen 
commented  upon — and  that  is  that  a 
mother's  love  for  her  offspring  bears  a 
certain  ratio  to  the  love  she  bore  their 
54 


/fca£>ame  ffiugon 


father.  Had  Madame  Guyon  ever  carried 
in  her  arms  a  love-child,  I  carm  Dt  conceive 
of  her  allowing  this  child  to  be  cared 
for  by  others — no  matter  how  competent. 
The  favor  that  had  greeted  Madame 
Guyon  wherever  she  went  was  very  great. 
Her  animation  and  devout  enthusiasm 
won  her  entrance  into  the  homes  of  the 
great  and  noble  everywhere.  She  organ- 
ized societies  of  women  that  met  for 
prayer  and  conversation  on  exalted 
themes.  The  burden  of  her  philosophy 
was  "  Quietism  " — the  absolute  submis- 
sion of  the  human  soul  to  the  will  of 
God.  Give  up  all,  la}-  aside  striving,  all 
reaching  out,  all  unrest,  cease  penance 
and  lie  low  in  the  Lord's  hand.  He 
doeth  all  things  well.  Make  life  one 
continual  prayer  for  holiness — wholeness 
— harmony  ;  and  thus  all  good  will  come 
to  us — we  attract  the  good ;  we  attract 
God — He  is  our  friend — His  spirit  dwells 
with  us.  She  taught  of  power  through 
repose,  and  told  that  you  can  never  gain 
peace  by  striving  for  it  like  fury. 
55 


dfcafcame  ©ugon 

This  philosophy,  stretcliing  out  in 
limitless  ramifications,  bearing  on  every 
phase  and  condition  of  life,  touched  every- 
where with  mysticism,  afforded  endless 
opportunity  for  thought. 

It  is  the  same  philosophy  that  is  being 
expressed  by  thousands  of  prominent 
men  and  women  to-day.  It  embraced  all 
that  is  vital  and  best  in  our  so-called  "  ad- 
vanced thought  "  ;  for  in  good  sooth  none 
of  our  new  "  liberal  sects  "  have  anything 
that  has  not  been  taught  before  in  olden 
time. 

But  Madame  Guyon's  success  was  too 
great.  The  guardians  of  a  dogmatic 
religion  are  ever  on  the  scent  for  heresy. 
They  are  jealous,  and  fearful,  and  full  of 
alarm  lest  their  "institution"  shall  top- 
ple. Quietism  was  making  head,  and 
throughout  France  the  name  of  Madame 
Guyon  was  becoming  known.  She  went 
from  town  to  town,  and  from  city  to  city, 
and  gave  courses  of  lectures.  Women 
flocked  to  hear  her,  they  organized  clubs. 
Preachers  sometimes  appeared  and  argued 
56 


Aabxme  (Bugon 


with  her,  but  by  the  high  fervor  of  her 
speech  she  quickly  silenced  them.  Theu 
they  took  revenge  by  thundering  ser- 
mons against  her  after  she  had  gone. 
As  she  travelled  she  left  in  her  wake  a 
pyrotechnic  display  of  elocutionary  de- 
nunciation. They  dared  her  to  come 
back  and  fight  it  out.  The  air  was  full  of 
challenges.  One  prelate  was  good  enough 
to  say  :  "  This  woman  may  teach  prim- 
itive Christianity — but  if  people  find  God 
everywhere,  what 's  to  become  of  us  !  " 

And  although  the  theme  is  as  great  as 
Fate  and  as  serious  as  Death,  one  cannot 
suppress  a  smile  to  think  how  the  fear 
of  losing  their  job  has  ever  caused  men 
to  run  violently  to  and  fro  and  up  and 
down  in  the  earth,  crying  peace,  peace, 
when  there  is  no  peace. 

Now  it  was  the  denunciation  and  wild 
demonstration  of  her  fearing  foes  that 
advertised  the  labors  of  Madame  Guyon. 
For  strong  people  are  not  so  much  adver- 
tised by  their  loving  friends  as  by  their 
rabid  enemies. 

57 


dfta&ame  (Bugon 

This  happened  quite  a  while  ago  ;  but 
as  mankind  moves  in  a  circle  (and  not 
always  a  spiral,  either)  it  might  have 
happened  yesterday.  Make  the  scene 
Ohio  :  slip  Bossuet  out  and  Dr.  Buckley 
in  ;  coudense  the  virtues  of  Miss  Willard 
aud  Miss  Anthony  into  one,  and  let  this 
one  stand  for  Madame  Guyon  ;  call  it 
New  Transcendentalism,  dub  the  Madame 
a  New  Woman,  and  there  you  have  it  ! 

But  with  this  difference — petitions  to 
the  President  of  the  United  States  to  ar- 
rest this  female  offender  and  shut  her  up 
in  the  Chicago  jail,  indefinitely,  after  a 
mock  trial,  would  avail  not.  Yet  perse- 
cution has  its  compensation,  and  the 
treatment  that  Madame  Guyon  received 
emphasized  the  truths  she  taught  and  sent 
them  ringing  through  the  schools  and 
salons  and  wherever  thinking  men  gath- 
ered themselves  together.  Yes,  persecu- 
tion has  its  compensation.  In  its  state 
of  persecution  a  religion  is  pure,  if  ever  ; 
its  decline  begins  when  its  prosperity 
commences.  Prosperous  men  are  never 
58 


Aadftfftc  <$ugon 


wise  and  seldom  good.  Woe  unto  you 
when  all  men  shall  speak  well  of  you. 

Surely,  persecution  has  its  compensa- 
tion !  When  Madame  Guyon  was  sick  and 
in  prison  was  she  not  visited  by  Fenelon  ? 
Ah,  't  was  worth  the  cost.  Sympathy  is 
the  first  attribute  of  love  as  well  as  its 
last.  And  I  am  not  sure  but  that  sympa- 
thy is  love's  own  self,  vitalized  mayhap 
by  some  divine  actinic  ray.  Only  a 
thorn-crowned  bleeding  Christ  could  win 
the  adoration  of  a  world.  Only  the  souls 
who  have  suffered  are  well  loved.  Thus 
does  Golgotha  find  its  recompense.  Hark 
ye  and  take  courage,  ye  who  are  in  bonds  ! 
Gracious  spirits,  seen  or  unseen,  will 
minister  to  ye  now,  where  otherwise  they 
would  have  passed  without  a  sign  ! 

But  from  the  day  Fenelon  met  Madame 
Guyon  his  fortune  began  to  decline. 
People  looked  at  him  askance.  By  a 
grim  chance  he  was  made  one  of  a  com- 
mittee of  three  to  investigate  the  charges 
brought  against  the  woman.  The  court 
took  a  year  for  its  task.  Fenelon  read 
59 


Aad&me  ©ucon 


everything  that  Madame  Guyou  had  pub- 
lished, conversed  much  with  her,  inquired 
into  her  history  and  when  asked  for  his 
verdict  said — I  find  no  fault  in  her. 

He  talked  with  Madame  de  Maintenon, 
and  Madame  de  Maintenon  talked  with 
the  King,  and  the  offender  was  released. 

Soon  Fenelon  began  to  utter  in  his  ser- 
mons the  truths  that  he  had  learned  from 
Madame  Guyon.  And  he  gave  her  due 
credit.  He  explained  that  she  was  a  good 
Catholic — that  she  loved  the  Church — 
that  she  lived  up  to  all  the  Church  taught, 
and  besides  knowing  all  that  churchmen 
knew  she  knew  many  things  beside. 

Have  a  care,  Archbishop  of  Cambrai ! 
Enemies  are  upon  thy  track.  Defend 
not  defenceless  womanhood :  knowest 
thou  not  what  they  have  said  of  her? 
Speak  what  thou  art  taught  and  keep  thy 
inmost  thoughts  for  thyself  alone.  Have 
a  care,  Fenelon  !  thy  bishopric  hangs  by 
a  spider's  thread. 

The  years  kept  slipping  past  as  the 
years  will.  Twelve  summers  had  come, 
60 


dfca&ame  (Bugon 


and  twelve  times  had  autumn  leaves 
known  their  time  to  fall.  Madame  Guyon 
was  again  in  prison.  A  stranger  was 
Archbishop  of  Cambrai :  Fenelon  no 
longer  a  counsellor  of  kings — a  tutor  of 
royalty.  His  voice  was  silenced,  his  pen 
chained.  He  was  allowed  to  retire  to  a 
rural  parish.  There  he  lived  with  the 
peasants — revered,  beloved.  The  country 
where  he  dwelt  was  battle  scarred  and 
bleeding  ;  the  smoke  of  devastation  still 
hung  over  it.  Not  a  family  but  had 
been  robbed  of  its  best.  Death  had 
stalked  rampant.  Fenelon  shared  the 
poverty  of  the  people,  their  lowliness, 
their  sorrows.  All  the  tragedy  of  their 
life  was  his;  he  said  to  them,  "I  know 
I  know !  " 

Twelve  years  of  Madame  Guyon 's  life 
were  spent  in  prison.  Toward  the  last 
she  was  allowed  to  live  in  nominal  free- 
dom. But  despotism,  with  savage  leer 
and  stealthy  step,  saw  that  Fenelon  was 
kept  far  away.  In  those  declining  days, 
when  the  shadows  were  lengthening  to- 
61 


/BbaDame  ©ugon 


ward  the  east,  her  time  and  talents  were 
given  to  teaching  the  simple  rudiments 
of  knowledge  to  the  peasantry,  to  allevi- 
ating their  material  wants  and  minister- 
ing to  the  sick .  It  was  a  forced  retirement, 
and  yet  it  was  a  retirement  every  way  in 
accord  with  her  desires.  But  in  spite  of 
the  persecution  that  followed  her,  and 
the  obloquy  heaped  upon  her  name,  and 
the  bribe  of  pardon  if  she  would  but 
recant,  she  never  retracted  nor  wavered 
in  her  inward  or  outward  faith,  even  in 
the  estimation  of  a  hair.  The  firm  reti- 
cence as  to  the  supreme  secrets  of  her 
life,  and  her  steadfast  loyalty  to  that 
which  she  believed  was  truth,  must  ever 
command  the  affectionate  admiration  of 
those  who  prize  integrity  of  mind,  who 
hold  fast  to  the  divinity  of  love,  and 
believe  in  the  things  unseen  which  are 
eternal. 


62 


IV. 

THE  town  of  Montargis  is  one  day's 
bicycle  journey  from  Paris.  As 
for  the  road,  though  one  be  a  way- 
faring man  and  from  the  States  he  could 
not  err  therein.  You  simply  follow  the 
Seine  as  if  you  were  intent  on  discovering 
its  source,  keeping  to  the  beautiful  high- 
way that  follows  the  winding  stream. 
And  what  a  beautiful  clear,  clean  bit  of 
water  it  is  !  In  Paris  your  washerwoman 
takes  your  linen  to  the  river,  just  as  they 
did  in  the  days  of  Pharoah,  and  the  bun- 
dle comes  back  sweet  as  the  breath  of 
June.  Imagine  the  result  of  such  reck- 
lessness in  Chicago  ! 

But  as  I  rode  out  of  Paris  that  bright 
May-day    it    seemed    Monday   all   along 
the  way  ;   for  dames   with  baskets  bal- 
anced on  their  heads  were  making  their 
63 


.flftaDame  ©ugon 


way  to  the  water-side,  followed  by 
troops  of  barefoot  or  sabot-shod  children. 
There  was  one  fine  young  woman  with 
a  baby  in  her  arms,  and  the  innocent 
first-born  was  busily  taking  its  breakfast 
as  the  mother  walked  calmly  along, 
bearing  on  her  well-poised  head  the 
family  wash.  And  a  mile  farther  on,  as 
if  she  had  seen  her  rival  and  gone  her 
one  better,  was  another  woman  with  a 
two-year-old  cherub  perched  secure  on 
top  of  the  gently  swaying  basket,  proud 
as  a  cardinal  about  to  be  consecrated.  It 
was  a  study  in  balancing  that  I  have 
never  seen  before  or  since  ;  and  I  only 
ask  those  to  believe  it  who  know  things 
so  true  that  they  dare  not  tell  them.  As 
the  day  wore  on,  I  saw  that  the  wash  was 
being  completed,  for  the  garments  were 
spread  out  on  the  greenest  of  green  grass, 
or  on  the  bushes  that  lined  the  way.  By 
ten  o'clock  I  was  nearing  Fontainebleau 
and  the  clothes  were  nearly  ready  to  take 
in  ;  but  not  quite.  For  while  waiting  for 
the  warm  sun  and  the  gentle  breeze  to 
04 


/fta&ame  <5ueon 

dry  them,  the  thrifty  dames,  who  were 
French  and  make  soup  out  of  everything, 
put  in  the  time  by  laundering  the  chil- 
dren. It  seemed  like  that  economic 
stroke  of  good  housewives  who  use  the 
soapy  wash-water  for  scrubbing  the 
kitchen  floor.  There  they  were,  dozens 
of  hopefuls  on  whom  the  fate  of  the 
nation  rested,  creepers  to  ten-year-olds 
being  scrubbed  and  dipped,  or  playing 
parlez-vous  tag  in  lieu  of  towel,  as  inno- 
cent of  clothes  as  Carlyle's  imaginary 
House  of  Lords. 

And  so  I  passed  off  from  the  road  that 
traced  the  Seine  to  a  road  that  kept  com- 
pany with  the  canal.  I  followed  the  tow- 
path,  even  in  spite  of  warnings  that 't  was 
'gainst  the  law.  It  was  a  one-horse  canal, 
for  many  of  the  gaily  painted  boats  were 
drawn  only  by  a  single  shaggy-limbed 
Percheron.  The  boats  were  sharp-prowed 
and  narrow  ;  and  on  some  were  bare- 
headed women  knitting,  and  men  carv- 
ing curious  things  out  of  blocks  of  wood, 
as  they  journeyed.  And  I  said  to  myself 
65 


flfta&ame  (Bugon 


if  "it  is  the  pace  that  kills"  these  peo- 
ple are  making  a  strong  bid  for  immortal- 
ity. I  hailed  the  lazily  moving  craft, 
waving  my  hat,  and  the  slow-going  tour- 
ists called  back  cheerily. 

By-aud-by  I  came  to  a  great,  wide  plain 
that  stretched  away  like  a  tideless  summer 
sea.  The  wheat  and  lentils  and  pulse 
were  planted  in  long  strips.  In  one  place 
I  thought  I  could  trace  the  good  old 
American  flag  (that  you  never  really  love 
unless  you  are  on  a  foreign  shore)  made 
by  alternate  strips  of  millet  and  peas, 
with  a  goodly  patch  of  cabbages  in  the 
corner  for  stars.  But  possibly  this  was 
imagination, — for  I  had  been  thinking 
that  in  a  week  it  would  be  the  Fourth  of 
July  and  I  was  far  from  home — in  a  land 
where  firecrackers  are  unknown. 

Coming  to  a  little  rise  of  ground,  I  could 
see,  lying  calm  and  quiet  amid  the  world 
of  rich  growing  grain,  the  town  of  Mon- 
targis.  Across  on  the  blue  hillside  was 
Montargis  Castle,  framed  in  a  mass  of 
foliage.  I  stopped  to  view  the  scene  and 
66 


dfca&ame  (Sugon 


the  echo  of  vesper  bells  came  pealing 
gently  over  the  miles,  as  the  nodding 
poppies  at  my  feet  bowed  reverently  in 
the  breeze. 

Villages  in  France  viewed  from  a  dis- 
tance seem  so  restful  and  idyllic.  There 
is  no  sound  of  strife,  no  trace  of  rivalry, 
no  vain  pride  ;  only  white  houses — the 
homes  of  good  men  and  gentle  women, 
and  cherub  children  ;  and  all  of  the 
church  steeples  truly  point  to  God.  Yet 
on  closer  view — but  what  of  that ! 

When  I  reached  the  town,  the  church 
whose  spire  I  had  seen  from  the  distance 
beckoned  me  first.  I  turned  off  from  the 
wide  thoroughfare,  intending  just  to  get 
a  glance  at  the  outside  of  the  building  as 
I  passed.  But' the  great  iron  gates  thrown 
invitingly  open,  and  a  rusty,  dusty  dog 
of  Flanders  lying  in  the  entry  waiting 
for  his  master,  told  me  that  there  was 
service  within.  So  I  entered,  passing 
through  the  noiseless  swinging  door, 
and  into  the  dim  twilight  of  the  house  of 
prayer.  A  score  of  people  were  there, 
67 


dfcafcame  (Bugon 


and  standing  in  the  aisle  was  a  white- 
robed  priest.  He  was  speaking,  and  his 
voice  came  so  gently,  so  sure  withal,  so 
exquisitely  modulated,  that  I  paused  and 
leaning  against  a  pillar,  listened.  I  think 
it  was  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  a  preacher 
speaking  in  a  large  church  who  did  not 
speak  so  loud  that  an  echo  chased  his 
sentences  round  and  round  the  vaulted 
dome  and  strangled  the  sense.  The  tone 
was  conversational  and  the  manner  so 
free  from  canting  conventionality  that  I 
moved  up  closer  to  get  a  view  of  the  face. 

It  was  too  dark  to  see  well,  but  I  came 
under  the  spell  of  the  man's  earnest  elo- 
quence. The  sacred  .stillness,  the  falling 
night,  the  odor  from  incense  and  banks 
of  flowers  piled  about  the  feet  of  an  image 
of  the  Holy  Virgin — evidently  brought  by 
the  peasantry,  having  nothing  else  to 
give — made  a  combination  of  melting 
conditions  that  would  have  subdued  a 
heart  of  stone. 

The  preacher  ceased  to  speak,  and  as  he 
raised  his  hands  in  benediction  I  involun- 
68 


flfcafcame  (Bugon 


tarily,  with  the  other  worshippers,  knelt 
on  the  stone  floor  and  bowed  my  head 
in  silent  reverie. 

Suddenly  I  was  aroused  by  a  crashing 
noise  at  my  elbow,  and  glancing  round 
saw  that  an  old  man  near  me  had  merely 
dropped  his  cane.  A  heavy  cudgel  it  was, 
that  falling  on  the  stone  flagging  sent 
a  thundering  reverberation  through  the 
vaulted  chambers. 

The  worshippers  were  slipping  out,  one 
by  one,  and  soon  no  one  was  left  but  the 
old  man  of  the  cudgel  and  myself.  He 
wore  wooden  shoes,  and  was  holding  the 
cord-wood  fast  between  his  knees,  roll- 
ing his  hat  nervously  in  his  big  hands. 
"  He  \s  a  stranger,  too,"  I  said  to  myself, 
"  he  is  the  man  who  owns  the  rusty  dog 
of  Flanders,  and  he  is  waiting  to  give  the 
priest  some  message  !  " 

I  leaned  over  towards  my  neighbor 
and  asked  :  ' '  The  priest — what  is  his 
name?  " 

"Father  Francis,  Monsieur!"  and  the 
old  man  swayed  back  and  forward  in  his 
69 


dfcaDame  ©uson 


seat  as  if  moved  by  some  inward  emo- 
tion, still  fingering  his  hat. 

Just  then  the  priest  came  out  from 
behind  the  altar,  wearing  a  black  robe 
instead  of  the  white  one.  He  moved 
down  with  a  sort  of  quiet  majesty  straight 
towards  us.  We  arose  as  one  man  ;  it  was 
as  though  someone  had  pressed  a  button. 

Father  Francis  walked  by  me,  bowing 
slightly,  and  shook  hands  with  my  old 
neighbor.  They  stood  talking  in  an 
undertone. 

A  last  struggling  ray  of  light  from  the 
dying  sun  came  in  over  the  chancel  and 
flooded  the  great  room  for  an  instant.  It 
allowed  me  to  get  a  good  look  at  the  face 
of  the  priest.  As  I  stood  there  staring  at 
him  I  heard  him  say  to  the  old  man  as  he 
bade  him  good-bye,  ' '  Yes,  tell  her  I  '11 
be  there  in  the  morning." 

Then  he  turned  to  me  and  I  was  still 
staring.  And  as  I  stared  I  was  repeating 
to  myself  the  words  the  people  said  when 
Dante  used  to  pass— "There  is  the  man 
who  has  been  in  hell !  " 
70 


/Ibabame  <3ug(Mt 

"  You  are  an  Englishman  ?  "  said  Father 
Francis  to  me  pleasantly  as  he  held  out 
his  hand. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "lam  an  Englishman 
— that  is,  no — an  American  !  " 

I  was  wondering  if  he  really  heard  me 
make  that  Dante  remark  ;  and  anyway, 
I  had  been  rudely  staring  at  him  and  lis- 
tening with  both  ears  to  his  conversation 
with  the  old  man.  I  tried  to  roll  my  hat, 
and  had  I  a  cudgel  I  would  surely  have 
dropped  it  ;  and  with  it  all  I  wondered  if 

4 

the  dog  of  Flanders  waiting  outside  was 
not  getting  impatient  for  me  ! 

"Oh,  an  American  !  I  'm  glad — I  have 
very  dear  friends  in  America  !  " 

Then  I  saw  that  Father  Francis  did  not 
look  so  much  like  the  exiled  Florentine 
as  I  had  thought,  for  his  smile  was  win- 
ning as  that  of  a  woman,  the  corners  of 
his  mouth  did  not  turn  down,  and  the 
nose  had  not  the  Roman  curve.  Dante 
was  an  exile  :  this  man  was  at  home — 
and  would  have  been,  anywhere. 

He  was  tall,  slender,  and  straight ;  he 
7i 


dlbaOame  (Bugon 

must  have  been  sixty  years  old,  but  the 
face  in  spite  of  its  furrows  was  singularly 
handsome.  Grave,  yet  not  depressed,  it 
showed  such  feminine  delicacy  of  feeling, 
such  grace,  such  high  intellect,  that  I 
stood  and  gazed  as  I  might  at  a  statue  in 
bronze.  But  plain  to  see,  he  was  a  man 
of  sorrow  and  acquainted  with  grief. 
The  face  spake  of  one  to  whom  might 
have  come  a  great  tribulation,  and  who 
by  accepting  it  had  purchased  redemption 
for  all  time  from  all  the  petty  troubles  of 
earth. 

"You  must  stay  here  as  long  as  you 
wish,  and  you  will  come  to  our  old  church 
again,  I  hope  !  "  said  the  Father.  He 
smiled,  nodded  his  head  and  started  to 
leave  me  alone. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  '11  come  again — I  '11  come 
in  the  morning,  for  I  want  to  talk  with 
you  about  Madame  Guyon — she  was  mar- 
ried in  this  church  they  told  me — is  that 
true?"  I  clutched  a  little.  Here  was 
A  man  I  could  not  afford  to  lose — one  of 
the  Elect ! 

72 


/Rai>ame  (Bugon 


"Oh,  yes,  that  was  a  long  time  ago 
though.  Are  you  interested  in  Madame 
Guyon  ?  I  am  glad — not  to  know  Fene- 
lon  seems  a  misfortune.  He  used  to 
preach  from  that  very  pulpit,  and  Madame 
was  baptized  at  that  font  and  confirmed 
here.  I  have  pictures  of  them  both  ;  and 
I  have  their  books — one  of  the  books  is  a 
first  edition.  Do  you  care  for  such 
things?  " 

When  I  was  broke  in  London,  in  the 
fall  of  Eighty-nine  !  Do  I  care  for  such 
things  ?  I  cannot  recall  what  I  said,  but 
I  remembered  that  this  brown-skinned 
priest  with  his  liquid  black  eyes,  and  the 
look  of  sorrow  on  his  handsome  face, 
stood  out  before  me  like  the  picture  of  a 
saint. 

I  made  an  engagement  to  meet  him 
the  next  morning,  when  he  bethought 
him  of  his  promise  to  the  old  man  of  the 
cudgel  and  wooden  shoes. 

"  Come  now  then — come  with  me  now. 
My  house  is  just  next  door  !  " 

And  so  we  walked  up  the  main  aisle  of 
73 


the  old  church,  around  the  altar  where 
Madame  Guyon  used  to  kneel,  and  by 
a  crooked  little  passage-way  entered  a 
house  fully  as  old  as  the  church.  A 
woman  who  might  have  been  as  old  as 
the  house  was  setting  the  table  in  a  little 
dining-room.  She  looked  up  at  me 
through  brass-rimmed  spectacles,  and 
without  orders  or  any  one  saying  a  word 
she  whisked  off  the  table-cloth,  replaced 
it  with  a  snowy  clean  one,  and  put  on 
two  plates  instead  of  one.  Then  she 
brought  in  toasted  brown  bread  and  tea, 
and  a  steaming  dish  of  lentils  and  fresh 
picked  berries  in  a  basket  all  lined  with 
green  leaves. 

It  was  not  a  very  sumptuous  repast, 
but  't  was  enough.  Afterward  I  learned 
that  Father  Francis  was  a  vegetarian. 
He  did  not  tell  me  so,  neither  did  he 
apologize  for  absence  of  fermented  drink, 
nor  for  his  failure  to  supply  tobacco  and 
pipes. 

Now  I  have  heard  that  there  be  priests 
who  hold  in  their  cowled  heads  choice 
74 


flba&amc  <3ut>on 


recipes  for  spiced  wines  and  who  carry 
hidden  away  in  their  hearts,  all  the  mys- 
teries of  the  chafing-dish ;  but  Father 
Francis  was  not  one  of  these.  His  form 
was  thin,  but  the  bronze  of  his  face  was 
the  bronze  that  comes  from  red  corpus- 
cles, and  the  strongly  corded  neck  and 
calloused  bony  hands  told  of  manly  absti- 
nence and  exercise  in  the  open  air,  and 
sleep  that  follows  peaceful  thoughts — 
knowing  no  chloral. 

After  the  meal,  Father  Francis  led  the 
way  to  his  little  study  upstairs.  He 
showed  me  his  books  and  read  to  me  from 
his  one  solitary  "  First  Edition."  Then 
he  unlocked  a  little  drawer  in  an  old 
chiffonier  and  brought  out  a  package  all 
wrapped  in  chamois.  This  parcel  held 
two  minature  portraits,  one  of  Fenelou 
and  one  of  Madame  Guyon. 

"That  picture  of  F£nelon  belonged  to 
Madame  Guyon.  He  had  it  painted  for 
her  and  sent  it  to  her  while  she  was  in 
prison  at  Vincennes.  The  other  I  bought 
in  Paris — I  do  not  know  its  history." 
75 


dfoa&ame  ©u^on 


The  good  priest  bad  work  to  do,  and 
let  me  know  it  very  gently,  thus  :  "You 
have  come  a  long  way,  brother,  the  road 
was  rough — I  know  you  must  be  weary. 
Come,  I  '11  show  you  to  your  room.  " 

He  lighted  a  candle  and  took  me  to  a 
bedroom  at  the  end  of  the  hall.  It  was  a 
little  room,  very  clean,  but  devoid  of  all 
ornament,  save  a  picture  of  the  Madonna 
and  her  Babe,  that  hung  over  the  head 
of  the  little  iron  bedstead.  It  was  a 
painting — not  very  good.  I  think  Father 
Francis  painted  it  himself;  the  face  of 
the  Holy  Mother  was  very  human — 
divinely  human — as  motherhood  should 
be. 

Father  Francis  was  right  :  the  way  had 
been  rough  and  I  was  tired. 

The  treetops  sang  a  cooiug  lullaby  and 
the  night  winds  sighed  solemnly  as  they 
wandered  through  the  hallway  and  open 
doors.  It  did  not  take  me  long  to 
go  to  sleep.  Later  the  wind  blew  up 
fresh  and  cool.  I  was  too  sleepy  to  get 
up  and  hunt  for  more  covering  and  yet 
76 


dfcafcame  (Bugdit 


I  was  cold  as  I  curled  up  in  a  knot  and 
dreamed  I  was  first  mate  with  Peary  on 
an  expedition  in  search  of  the  North  Pole. 
And  the  last  I  remember  was  a  vision  of 
a  grey-robed  priest  tiptoeing  across  the 
stone  floor ;  of  his  throwing  over  me  a 
heavy  blanket  and  then  hastily  tiptoeing 
out  again. 

The  matin  bells,  or  the  birds,  or  both, 
awoke  me  early,  but  when  I  got  down 
stairs  I  found  my  host  had  preceded  me. 
His  fine  face  looked  fresh  and  strong, 
and  yet  I  wondered  when  he  had  slept. 

After  breakfast  the  old  housekeeper 
hovered  near  :  "  What  is  it,  Margaret?" 
said  the  Father,  gently. 

"You  haven't  forgotten  your  engage- 
ment?" asked  the  woman,  with  just  a 
quaver  of  anxiety. 

"  Oh  no,  Margaret"  ;  then  turning  to 
me,  "Come,  you  shall  go  with  me — we 
will  talk  of  Fenelon  and  Madame  Guyon 
as  we  walk.  It  is  eight  miles  and  back 
but  you  will  not  mind  the  distance.  Oh, 
did  n't  I  tell  you  where  I  'm  going  ?  You 
77 


/Ifoa2>ame  (Bugon 

saw  the  old  man  at  the  church  last  night — 
it  is  his  daughter — she  is  dying — dying  of 
consumption.  She  has  not  been  a  good 
girl.  She  went  away  to  Paris,  three  years 
ago,  and  her  parents  never  heard  from  her. 
We  tried  to  find  her  but  could  not ;  and 
now  she  has  come  home  of  her  own  ac- 
cord— come  home  to  die.  I  baptized  her 
twenty  years  ago — how  fast  the  time  has 
flown  !  " 

The  priest  took  a  stout  staff  from  the 
corner,  and  handing  me  its  mate  we 
started  away.  Down  the  white,  dusty 
highway  we  went ;  out  on  the  stony  road 
where  yesterday,  as  the  darkness  gath- 
ered, trudged  an  old  man  in  wooden 
shoes — at  his  heels  a  dog  of  Flanders. 


78 


HARRIET  MARTINEAU 


79 


You  better  live  your  best  and  act  your  best  and 
think  your  best  to-day ;  for  to-day  is  the  sure 
preparation  for  to-morrow  and  all  the  other 
to-morrows  that  follow. 

Life's  Uses. 


So 


0 


HARRIET  MARTINEAU. 


i. 

1  BELIEVE  it  was  Thackeray  who  once 
expressed  a  regret  that  Harriet  Mar- 
tineau  had  not  shown  better  judg- 
ment in  choosing  her  parents. 

She  was  born  into  one  of  those  big  fami- 
lies where  there  is  not  love  enough  to  go 
'round.  The  mother  was  a  robustious 
woman  with  a  termagant  temper ;  she 
was  what  you  call  "  practical."  She  arose 
each  morning  like  Solomon's  ideal  wife 
while  it  was  yet  dark,  and  proceeded  to 
set  her  house  in  order.  She  made  the 
children  go  to  bed  when  they  were  not 
sleepy  and  get  up  when  they  were.  There 
was  no  beauty  sleep  in  that  household, 
81 


fjarrfet  /l&artfneau 


not  even  forty  winks  ;  and  did  any  mem- 
ber prove  recreant  and  require  a  douse  of 
cold  water,  not  only  did  he  get  the  douse 
but  he  also  heard  quoted  for  a  year  and 
a  day  that  remark  concerning  the  slug- 
gard, "  A  little  sleep,  a  little  slumber,  and 
a  little  folding  of  the  hands  to  sleep — so 
shall  thy  poverty  come  as  one  that  travel- 
eth  and  thy  want  as  an  armed  man." 

This  big,  bustling  amazon  was  never 
known  to  weep  but  once,  and  that  was 
when  L,ord  Nelson  died.  To  show  any 
emotion  would  have  been  to  reveal  a 
weakness,  and  a  caress  would  have  been 
proof  positive  of  folly.  Life  was  a  stern 
business  and  this  earth  journey  a  warfare. 
She  cooked,  she  swept,  she  scrubbed,  she 
sewed. 

And  although  she  withheld  every  loving 
word  and  kept  back  all  demonstration  of 
affection,  yet  her  children  were  always 
well  cared  for :  they  were  well  clothed, 
they  had  plenty  to  eat,  and  a  warm  place 
to  sleep.  And  in  times  of  sickness  this 
mother  would  send  all  others  to  rest  and 

32 


t>arriet  dfcartineau 


watch  by  the  bedside  until  the  shadows 
stole  away  and  the  sunrise  came  again. 
I  wonder  where  you  have  lived  all  your 
life  if  you  never  knew  a  woman  like  that? 

In  the  morning  as  soon  as  the  breakfast 
things  were  done  and  the  men  folks  had 
gone  to  the  cloth  factory,  Mrs.  Martineau 
would  marshal  her  daughters  in  the  sit- 
ting-room to  sew.  And  there  they  sewed 
for  four  hours  every  forenoon  for  years 
and  years ;  and  as  they  sewed  someone 
would  often  read  aloud  to  them,  for  Mrs. 
Martineau  believed  in  education — educa- 
tion gotten  on  the  wing. 

Sewing  machines  and  knitting  ma- 
chines have  done  more  to  emancipate 
women  than  all  the  preachers.  Think 
of  the  days  when  every  garment  worn  by 
men,  women,  and  children  was  made  by 
the  never-resting  hands  of  women  ! 

And  as  the  girls  in  that  thrifty  Norwich 
household  sewed  and  listened  to  the 
reader  they  occasionally  spoke  in  mono- 
tone of  what  was  read — all  save  Harriet : 
Harriet  sewed.  And  the  other  girls 
83 


"Ibarriet  ASartfneatt 

thought  Harriet  very  dull,  and  her  mother 
was  sure  of  it,  and  called  her  stupid  and 
sometimes  shook  her  and  railed  at  her, 
endeavoring  to  arouse  her  out  of  her 
lethargy. 

Harriet  has  herself  left  on  record  some- 
what of  her  feelings  in  those  days.  In 
her  child  heart  there  was  a  great  aching 
void.  Her  life  was  wrong — the  lives  about 
her  were  wrong — she  did  not  know  how, 
and  could  not  then  trace  the  subject  far 
enough  to  tell  why.  She  was  a-hungered, 
she  longed  for  tenderness,  for  affection 
and  the  close  confidence  that  knows  no 
repulse.  She  wanted  them  all  to  throw 
down  their  sewing  for  just  five  minutes, 
and  sit  in  the  silence  with  folded  hands. 
She  longed  for  her  mother  to  hold  her  on 
her  lap  so  that  she  could  pillow  her  head 
on  her  shoulder  with  her  arms  about  her 
neck,  and  have  a  real  good  cry.  Then  all 
her  troubles  and  pains  would  be  gone. 

But  the  slim  little  girl  never  voiced 
any  of  these  foolish  thoughts ;  she  knew 
better.  She  choked  back  her  tears  and 
84 


Ibarriet  dfoartmeau 


Jeaniug  over  her  sewing  tried  hard  to 
be  "good." 

"  She  is  so  stupid  that  she  never  listens 
to  what  one  reads  to  her,"  said  the  mother 
one  day. 

One  of  that  family  still  lives.  I  saw 
him  not  long  ago  and  talked  with  him 
face  to  face  concerning  some  of  the  things 
here  written — Doctor  James  Martineau, 
ninety  two  years  old. 

The  others  are  all  dead  now — all  are 
gone.  In  the  cemetery  at  Norwich  is  a 
plain  slate  slab,  ' '  To  the  memory  of 
Elizabeth  Martineau,  Mother  of  Harriet 
Martineau."  .  .  .  And  so  she  sleeps, 
remembered  for  what  ?  as  the  mother 
of  a  stupid  little  girl  who  tried  hard  to  be 
good,  but  did  n't  succeed  very  well,  and 
who  did  not  listen  when  they  read  aloud. 


85 


II. 


IT  seems  sometimes  that  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  a  New  Year — it  is  only 
the  old  year  come  back.  These 
folks  about  us — have  they  not  lived  be- 
fore ?  Surely  they  are  the  same  creatures 
that  have  peopled  earth  in  the  days 
agone  ;  they  are  busy  about  the  same 
things,  they  chase  after  the  same  trifles, 
they  commit  the  same  mistakes,  and 
blunder  as  men  have  always  blundered. 

Only  last  week  a  teacher  in  one  of  the 
primary  schools  of  Chicago  reported  to 
her  principal  that  a  certain  little  boy  in 
her  room  was  so  hopelessly  dull  and  per- 
verse that  she  despaired  of  teaching  him 
anything.  The  child  would  sit  with  open 
mouth  and  look  at  her  as  she  would  talk 
to  the  class,  and  five  minutes  afterward 
he  could  not  or  would  not  repeat  three 
words  of  what  had  been  said.  She  had 
scolded  him,  made  him  stand  on  the  floor, 
86 


tmrriet  dfcarttneau 


kept  hitn  in  after  school,  and  even  whipped 
him,  but  all  in  vain.  The  principal  looked 
into  the  case,  scratched  his  head,  stroked 
his  whiskers,  coughed,  and  decided  that 
the  public  school  funds  should  not  be 
wasted  in  trying  to  "learn  imbeciles," 
and  so  reported  to  the  parents.  He  ad- 
vised them  to  send  the  boy  to  a  Home 
for  the  Feeble  Minded,  sending  the  mes- 
sage by  an  older  brother.  So  the  parents 
took  the  child  to  the  Home  and  asked 
that  he  be  admitted.  The  Matron  took 
the  little  boy  on  her  lap,  talked  to  him, 
read  to  him,  showed  him  pictures  and 
said  to  the  astonished  parents,  "This 
child  has  fully  as  much  intelligence  as 
any  of  your, other  children,  perhaps  more 
— but  he  is  deaf. ' ' 

Harriet  Martineau  from  her  twelfth 
year  was  very  deaf  and  she  was  also 
devoid  of  the  senses  of  taste  and  of  smell. 
' '  Oh,  these  are  terrible  tribulations  to  be- 
fall a  mortal ! "  we  exclaim  with  uplifted 
hands.  But  on  sober  second  thought  I 
am  not  sure  that  I  know  what  is  a  tribula- 
87 


■fcaritet  dfbartincatt 


tion  and  what  a  blessing.  I ' m  not  positive 
I  would  know  a  blessing  should  I  see  it 
coming  up  the  street.  For  as  I  write  it 
conies  to  tne  that  the  Great  Big  Black 
Things  that  have  loomed  against  the 
horizon  of  my  life,  threatening  to  devour 
me,  simply  loomed  and  nothing  more. 
They  harmed  me  not.  The  things  that 
have  really  made  me  miss  my  train  have 
always  been  sweet,  soft,  pretty,  pleasant 
things  of  which  I  was  not  in  the  least 
afraid. 

Mother  Nature  is  kind,  and  if  she  de- 
prives us  of  one  thing  she  gives  us  an- 
other, and  happiness  seems  to  be  meted 
out  to  each  and  all  in  equal  portions. 
Harriet's  afflictions  caused  her  to  turn  her 
mind  to  other  things  than  those  which 
filled  the  hearts  of  girls  her  own  age. 
Society  chatter  held  nothing  for  her,  she 
could  not  hear  it  if  she  would  ;  and  she 
ate  the  food  that  agreed  with  her,  not  that 
which  was  merely  pleasant  to  the  taste. 
She  began  to  live  in  a  world  of  thought 
and  ideas.      The  silence    meant  much. 


"Ibamet  /fcarttneau 


"  The  first  requisite  is  that  man  should 
be  a  good  animal."  I  used  to  think  that 
Herbert  Spencer  in  voicing  this  aphorism 
struck  twelve.  But  I  am  no  longer  en- 
thusiastic about  the  remark.  The  seuses 
of  most  dumb  animals  are  far  better 
developed  than  those  of  man.  Hounds 
can  trace  footsteps  over  flat  rocks,  even 
though  a  shower  has  fallen  in  the  inter- 
val ;  cats  can  see  in  the  dark  ;  rabbits  hear 
sounds  that  men  never  hear ;  horses  de- 
tect an  impurity  in  water  that  a  chemical 
analysis  does  not  reveal,  and  homing 
pigeons  would  gain  nothing  by  carrying 
a  compass.  And  so  I  feel  safe  in  saying 
that  if  any  man  were  so  good  and  perfect 
an  animal  that  he  had  the  hound's  sense 
of  smell,  the  cat's  eyesight,  the  rabbit's 
sense  of  hearing,  the  horse's  sense  of 
taste,  and  the  homing  pigeon's  "locality  " 
he  would  not  be  one  whit  better  prepared 
to  appreciate  Kipling's  "Dipsy  Chanty," 
and  not  a  hair's  breadth  nearer  a  point 
where  he  could  write  a  poem  to  equal  it. 

No  college  professor  can  see  so  far  as 
89 


•foarnet  Aartfneau 


a  Sioux  Indian,  neither  can  he  hear  so 
well  as  a  native  African.  There  are  rays 
of  light  that  no  unaided  human  eye  can 
trace  and  there  are  sounds  subtler  than 
human  ear  can  detect. 

These  five  bodily  faculties  that  we  are 
pleased  to  call  the  senses  were  devel- 
oped by  savage  man.  He  holds  them  in 
common  with  the  brute.  And  now  that 
man  is  becoming  partially  civilized  he  is 
in  danger  of  losing  them.  Faculties  not 
used  are  taken  away.  Dame  Nature 
seems  to  consider  that  anything  you  do 
not  utilize  is  not  needed  ;  and  as  she  is 
averse  to  carrying  dead  freight  she  drops 
it  out. 

But  man  can  think,  and  the  more  he 
thinks  and  the  further  he  projects  his 
thought  the  less  need  he  has  for  his  phys- 
ical senses.  Homer's  matchless  vision 
was  the  rich  possession  of  a  blind  man  ; 
Milton  never  saw  Paradise  until  he  was 
sightless,  and  Helen  Keller  knows  a 
world  of  things  that  were  neither  told  her 
in  lectures  nor  read  from  books.  The 
90 


liarrtet  Aartineau 


far  reaching  iutellect  often  goes  with  a 
singularly  imperfect  body,  and  these 
things  seem  to  point  the  truth  that  the 
body  is  one  thing  and  the  soul  another. 

I  make  no  argument  for  impoverished 
vitality,  nor  do  I  plead  the  cause  of  those 
who  enjoy  poor  health.  Yet  how  often 
do  we  find  that  the  confessional  of  a  fam- 
ily or  a  neighborhood  is  the  bedside  of 
one  who  sees  the  green  fields  only  as  did 
the  Lady  of  vShalott  by  holding  a  look- 
ing-glass so  that  it  reflects  the  out-of- 
doors.  Let  me  carry  that  simile  one  step 
further  and  say  that  the  mirror  of  the 
soul  when  kept  free  from  fleck  and  stain 
reveals  the  beauties  of  the  universe.  And 
I  am  not  sure  but  that  the  soul,  freed  from 
the  distractions  of  sense  and  the  tram- 
mels of  flesh,  glides  away  to  a  height 
where  things  are  observed  for  the  first 
time  in  their  true  proportions. 

"The  soul  knows  all  things,"  says 
Emerson,  and  knowledge  is  only  a  re- 
membering. 


ft 


III. 

THE  Martiueaus  were  Huguenots,  a 
stern  sturdy  stock  that  suffered 
exile  rather  than  forego  the  right 
of  free  thought  and  free  speech.  These 
are  the  people  who  are  the  salt  of  the 
earth.  And  yet  as  I  read  history  I  see 
that  they  are  the  people  who  have  been 
hunted  with  dogs  and  followed  by  armed 
men  carrying  fagots.  The  driving  of  the 
Huguenots  from  France  came  near  bank- 
rupting the  land,  and  the  flight  of  Jews 
and  Huguenots  into  England  helped 
largely  to  make  that  country  the  count- 
ing-house of  the  world.  Take  the 
Quakers,  Puritans,  Huguenots,  and  other 
refugees  from  America  and  it  is  no  longer 
the  land  of  the  free  or  the  home  of  the 
brave. 

Of  the  seven  presidents  who  presided 
92 


•foarcict  dBartineau 


over  the  deliberations  of  that  first  Conti- 
nental Congress  in  Philadelphia,  three 
were  Huguenots  :  Henry  Laurens,  John 
Jay,  and  Elias  Boudinot,  and  in  the  seats 
there  were  Puritans  not  a  few. 

"By  God,  Sir,  we  cannot  afford  to  per- 
secute the  Quakers,"  said  a  certain  Amer- 
ican a  long  while  ago,  "their  religion 
may  be  wrong,  but  the  people  who  cling 
to  an  idea  are  the  only  people  we  need. 
If  we  must  persecute  let  us  persecute  the 
complacent." 

Harriet  Martineau  had  all  the  restless 
independence  of  will  that  marked  her 
ancestry.  She  set  herself  to  acquire 
knowledge,  and  she  did.  When  she  was 
twenty  she  spoke  three  languages  and 
could  read  in  four.  She  knew  history, 
astronomy,  physical  science,  and  it  crowd- 
ed her  teacher  in  mathematics  very  hard 
to  keep  one  lesson  in  advance  of  her.  Be- 
sides, she  could  sew  and  cook  and ' '  keep 
house."  Yet  it  was  all  gathered  by  labor 
and  toil  and  lift.  By  taking  thought 
she  had  added  cubits  to  her  stature. 
93 


•foavriet  /Ifcartmeatt 


But  at  twenty  a  great  light  suddenly 
shone  around  her.  Love  came  and  re- 
vealed the  wonders  of  earth  and  heaven. 
She  had  ever  been  of  a  religious  nature, 
but  now  her  religion  was  vitalized  and 
spiritualized.  Deity  was  no  longer  a 
Being  who  dwelt  at  a  great  distance 
among  the  stars,  but  the  Divine  life  was 
hers.  It  flowed  through  her,  nourished 
her  and  gave  her  strength. 

Renan  suggests  that  one  reason  why 
religion  remains  on  such  a  material  plane 
for  many  is  because  they  have  never 
known  a  great  and  vitalizing  love  ;  a  love 
where  intellect,  spirit,  and  sex  finds  its 
perfect  mate.  Love  is  the  great  enlight- 
ener.  And  in  my  own  mind  I  am  fully 
persuaded  that  comparatively  few  mortals 
ever  experience  this  re-birth  that  a  great 
love  gives.  We  grope  our  way  through 
life.  Nature's  first  thought  is  for  reproduc- 
tion of  the  species  ;  she  has  so  overloaded 
physical  passion  that  men  and  women 
marry  when  the  blood  is  warm  and  intel- 
lect callow.  Girls  marry  for  life  the  first 
94 


fmrict  jflftartmcau 


man  that  offers,  and  forever  put  behind 
them  the  possibilities  of  a  love  that  would 
enable  them  to  lift  up  their  eyes  to  the 
hills  from  whence  cometh  their  help. 
Very,  very  seldom  do  the  years  that 
bring  a  calmer  pulse  reveal  a  mating  of 
mind  and  spirit. 

When  love  came  to  Harriet  she  began 
to  write,  her  first  book  being  a  little 
volume  called  Devotional  Exercises. 
These  daily  musings  on  Divine  things 
and  these  sweetly  limpid  prayers  were 
all  written  out  first  for  herself  and  her 
lover.  But  it  came  to  her  that  what  was 
a  help  to  them  might  be  a  help  to  others. 
A  publisher  was  found  and  the  little  work 
had  a  large  sale  and  found  appreciative 
readers  for  many  years. 

To-day,  out  under  the  trees,  I  read  this 
first  book  written  by  Miss  Martineau. 
How  gently  sweet  and  perfect  are  these 
prayers  asking  for  a  clean  heart  and  a 
right  spirit !  And  yet  at  this  time  Har- 
riet Martineau  had  gotten  well  beyond 
the  idea  that  God  was  a  great  big  man 
95 


Ibarrict  dftartineau 


who  could  be  beseeched  and  moved  to 
alter  his  plans  because  some  creature  on 
the  planet  Earth  asked  it.  Her  religion 
was  pure  Theism,  with  no  confounding 
dogmas  about  who  was  to  be  saved  and 
who  damned.  The  state  of  infants  who 
died  uubaptized  and  of  the  heathen  who 
passed  away  without  ever  having  heard 
of  Jesus  did  not  trouble  her.  She  already 
accepted  the  truth  of  necessity  ;  believing 
that  every  act  of  life  was  the  result  of  a 
cause.  We  do  what  we  do,  and  are  what 
we  are  on  account  of  impulses  given  us 
by  previous  training,  previous  acts  or 
conditions  under  which  we  live  and  have 
lived. 

If  then  everything  in  this  world  hap- 
pens because  something  else  happened  a 
thousand  years  ago  or  yesterday,  and  the 
result  could  not  possibly  be  different  from 
what  it  is,  why  besiege  Heaven  with 
prayers  ? 

The  answer  is  simple.  Prayer  is  an 
emotional  exercise  ;  an  endeavor  to  bring 
the  will  into  a  state  of  harmony  with  the 
96 


Darriet  dfcartineau 


Diviue  Will ;  a  rest  and  a  composure  that 
gives  strength  by  putting  us  in  position 
to  partake  of  the  strength  of  the  Univer- 
sal. The  roan  who  prays  to-day  is  as  a 
result  stronger  to-morrow,  and  thus  is 
prayer  answered.  By  right  thinking  does 
the  race  grow.  An  act  is  only  a  crystal- 
lized thought ;  and  this  young  girl's  little 
book  was  designed  as  a  help  to  right 
thinking.  The  things  it  taught  are  so 
simple  that  no  man  need  go  to  a  theolog- 
ical seminary  to  learn  them  :  the  Silence 
will  tell  him  all  if  he  will  but  listen  and 
incline  his  heart. 

I,ove  had  indeed  made  Harriet's  spirit 
free.  And  to  no  woman  can  love  mean 
so  much  as  to  one  who  is  aware  that  she 
is  physically  deficient.  Homely  women 
are  apt  to  make  the  better  wives,  and  in 
all  my  earth-pilgrimage  I  never  saw  a 
more  devoted  love — a  diviner  tenderness 
than  that  which  exists  between  a  man  of 
my  acquaintance,  sound  in  every  sense 
and  splendid  in  physique,  and  his  wife 
who  has  been  blind  from  her  birth.  For 
97 


Ibarrict  /Iftartlneau 

•weeks  after  I  first  met  this  couple  there 
rang  in  my  ears  that  expression  of  Victor 
Hugo's,  "To  be  blind  and  to  be  loved — 
what  happier  fate  !  " 

But  Harriet's  lover  was  poor  in  purse 
and  his  family  was  likewise  poor,  and 
the  thrifty  Martiueaus  vigorously  op- 
posed the  mating.  In  fact  Harriet's 
mother  hooted  at  it  and  spoke  of  it  with 
scorn  ;  and  Harriet  answered  not  back 
but  hid  her  love  away  in  her  heart — bid- 
ing the  time  when  her  lover  should  make 
for  himself  a  name  and  a  place  and  have 
money  withal  to  command  the  respect 
of  even  mill  owners. 

So  the  days  passed,  and  the  months 
went  by  and  three  years  counted  them- 
selves with  the  eternity  that  lies  behind. 
Harriet's  lover  had  indeed  proved  him- 
self worthy.  He  had  worked  his  way 
through  college,  had  been  graduated  at 
the  Divinity  School,  and  his  high  repu- 
tation for  character  and  his  ability  as  a 
speaker  won  for  him  at  once  a  position 
to  which  many  older  than  he  aspired. 
98 


t>arrict  Aartfneau 


He  became  the  pastor  of  the  Unitarian 
Church  at  Manchester — and  this  was  no 
small  matter ! 

Now  Norwich,  where  the  Martineaus 
lived,  is  a  long  way  from  Manchester, 
where  Harriet's  lover  preached,  or  it 
was  then,  in  stage-coach  times.  It  cost 
money,  too,  to  send  letters. 

And  there  was  quite  an  interval  once 
when  Harriet  sent  several  letters,  and 
anxiously  looked  for  one ;  but  none 
arrived. 

Then  word  came  that  the  brilliant 
young  preacher  was  ill  ;  he  wished  to  see 
his  betrothed.  She  started  to  go  to  him, 
but  her  parents  opposed  such  an  unpre- 
cedented thing.  She  hesitated,  deferred 
her  visit — intending  soon  to  go  at  all 
hazards — hoping  all  the  while  to  hear 
better  news. 

Word  came  that  Harriet's  lover  was 
dead. 

Soon  after  this  the  Martineau  mills, 
through  various  foolish  speculations,  got 
into  a  bad  way.  Harriet's  father  found 
99 


"foarriet  /ftartmeau 

himself  with  niore  debts  than  he  could 
pay  •,  his  endeavors  to  buffet  the  storm 
broke  his  health — he  gave  up  hope,  lan- 
guished, and  died. 

Mrs.  Martineau  and  the  family  were 
thus  suddenly  deprived  of  all  means  of 
support.  The  boys  were  sent  to  work  in 
the  mills  and  the  two  older  girls,  having 
five  sound  senses  each,  found  places  where 
they  could  do  housework  and  put  money 
in  their  purses. 

Harriet  stayed  at  home  and  kept 
house.  She  also  studied,  read,  and  wrote 
a  little — there  was  no  other  way  ! 


ioo 


IV. 

SIX  years  passed  and  the  name  of 
Harriet  Martineau  was  recognized 
as  a  power  in  the  land.  Her  Il- 
lustrations of  Political  Economyhad  sold 
well  up  in  the  hundred  thousands.  The 
little  stories  were  read  by  old  and  young, 
rich  and  poor,  learned  and  unlearned. 
Sir  Robert  Peel  had  written  Harriet  a 
personal  letter  of  encouragement ;  Lord 
Brougham  had  paid  for  and  given  away 
a  thousand  copies  of  the  booklets  ;  Rich- 
ard Cobden  had  publicly  endorsed  them  ; 
Coleridge  had  courted  the  author  ;  Flor- 
ence Nightingale  had  sung  her  praises, 
and  the  Czar  of  Russia  had  ordered  that 
"  all  the  books  of  Harriet  Martineau 
found  in.  Russia  shall  be  destroyed." 
Besides,  she  had  incurred  the  wrath  of 
King  Philippe  of  France,  who  after  first 


Ibarriet  jfl&artfneau 


lavishly  praisiug  her  and  ordering  the  it 
lustrations  translated  into  French,  to  be 
used  in  the  public  schools,  suddenly  dis- 
covered a  hot  chapter  entitled  "  The 
Error  called  the  Divine  Right  of  Kings," 
and  although  Philippe  was  only  a  "citi- 
zen-king" he  made  haste  to  recall  his 
kind  words. 

And  I  wish  here  to  remark  in  paren- 
theses, that  the  author  who  has  not  made 
warm  friends  and  then  lost  them  in  an 
hour  by  writing  things  that  did  not  agree 
with  the  preconceived  idea  of  these 
friends,  has  either  not  written  well  or  not 
been  read.  Every  preacher  who  preaches 
ably  has  two  doors  to  his  church — one 
where  the  people  come  in  and  another 
through  which  he  preaches  them  out. 
And  I  do  not  see  how  any  man,  even 
though  he  be  divine,  could  expect  or  hope 
to  have  as  many  as  twelve  disciples  and 
hold  them  for  three  years  without  being 
doubted,  denied,  and  betrayed.  If  you 
have  thoughts,  and  honestly  speak  your 
mind,  Golgotha  for  you  is  not  far  away. 

102 


*>arriet  /Rarttneau 


Harriet  Martineau  was  essentially  an 
agitator.  She  entered  into  life  in  its 
fullest  sense,  and  no  phase  of  existence 
escaped  her  keen  and  penetrating  inves- 
tigation. From  writing  books  giving 
minute  directions  to  housemaids  to 
lengthy  advice  to  prime  ministers,  her 
work  never  lagged.  She  was  widely 
read,  beloved,  respected,  feared,  and 
well  hated. 

When  her  political  economy  tales  were 
selling  their  best  the  Government  sent 
her  word  that  on  application  she  could 
have  a  pension  of  two  hundred  pounds  a 
year  for  life.  A  pension  of  this  kind 
comes  nominally  as  a  reward  for  excel- 
lent work  or  heroic  service.  But  a  pen- 
sion may  mean  something  else  :  it  often 
implies  that  the  receiver  shall  not  offend 
nor  affront  the  one  that  bestows  it. 
Could  we  trace  the  true  inner  history  of 
pensions  granted  by  monarchies  we  would 
find  that  they  are  usually  diplomatic 
moves. 

Harriet  made  no  response  to  the  gen- 
103 


•flbarriet  flfcarttneau 


erous  offer  of  a  life-long  maintenance 
from  the  State,  but  continued  to  work 
away  after  her  own  methods.  Yet  the 
offer  of  a  pension  did  her  good  in  one 
way  ;  it  suggested  the  wisdom  of  setting 
aside  a  sum  that  would  support  her  when 
her  earning  powers  were  diminished. 
From  her  two  books  written  concerning 
her  trip  to  America  she  received  the  sum 
of  seven  thousand  five  hundred  dollars. 
With  this  she  purchased  an  insurance 
policy  in  the  form  of  a  deferred  annuity, 
providing  that  from  her  fiftieth  year  to 
her  death  she  should  receive  the  annual 
sum  of  five  hundred  dollars.  Now  where 
in  all  the  realm  of  Grub  Street  do  we  find 
a  man  who  set  this  example  of  cool  wis- 
dom for  this  crippled  woman?  At  this 
time  she  was  supporting  her  mother  who 
had  become  blind,  and  also  a  brother 
who  was  a  slave  to  drink. 

Twenty-five  years  after  the  first  offer 

of  pension  the  Government  renewed  the 

proposition.     But  Harriet  explained  that 

her  needs  were  few  and  her  wants  sim- 

104 


tmrriet  Aartfheau 


pie ;  that  she  had  enough  anyway,  and 
besides,  she  could  not  consent  to  the  pol- 
icy of  pensioning  one  class  of  persons 
for  well-doing  and  forgetting  all  the  toil- 
ers who  have  worked  just  as  conscien- 
tiously, but  along  lowly  lines  ;  if  she  ever 
did  need  aid  she  would  do  as  other  old 
women  were  obliged  to  do,  i.  e.,  apply 
to  the  parish. 

I  find  that  Miss  Martineau  records  that 
she  wrote  for  the  Daily  London  News 
alone,  sixteen  hundred  and  forty-two 
separate  editorials.  She  also  wrote  over 
two  hundred  magazine  articles,  and  pub- 
lished upwards  of  fifty  books.  Her  work 
was  not  classic,  for  it  was  written  for  the 
times.  That  her  influence  for  good  on 
the  thought  of  the  times  was  wide  and 
far-reaching  all  thoughtful  men  agree. 
And  he  who  influences  the  thought  of 
his  times,  influences  all  the  times  that 
follow.  He  has  made  his  impress  on 
eternity.. 


105 


V. 


OPINIONS  may  differ  as  to  what 
constitutes  Harriet  Martineau's 
best  work,  but  my  view  is  that 
her  translation  and  condensation  of 
Auguste  Comte's  six  volumes  into  two 
will  live  when  all  of  her  other  work  is 
forgotten.  Comte's  own  writings  were 
filled  with  many  repetitions  and  rhetori- 
cal flounderings.  He  was  more  of  a  phi- 
losopher than  a  writer.  He  had  an  idea 
too  big  for  him  to  express,  but  he  ex- 
pressed at  it  right  bravely.  Miss  Mar- 
tineau,  trained  writer  and  thinker,  did 
not  translate  verbally :  she  caught  the 
idea,  and  translated  the  thought  rather 
than  the  language.  And  so  it  has  come 
about  that  her  work  has  been  translated 
literally  back  into  French  and  is  ac- 
cepted as  a  text-book  of  Positivism,  while 
1 06 


fl.umct  .^mtncui 

the  original  books  of  the  philosopher  are 
merely  collected  by  museums  and  biblio- 
philes as  curiosities. 

Comte  taught  that  man  passes  through 
three  distinct  mental  stages  in  his  devel- 
opment. First,  man  attributes  all  phe- 
nomena to  a  "Personal  God,"  and  to 
this  God  he  servilely  prays.  Second,  he 
believes  in  a  "  Supreme  Essence,"  a 
"Universal  Principle"  or  a  "First 
Cause."  and  seeks  to  discover  its  hid- 
ing-place. Third,  he  ceases  to  hutit  out 
the  unknowable,  and  is  content  to  live 
and  work  for  a  positive  present  good,  fully 
believing  that  what  is  best  to-day  cannot 
fail  to  bring  the  best  results  to-morrow. 

Harriet  had  long  considered  that  one 
reason  for  the  very  slow  advancement  of 
civilization  was  that  men  had  ever  busied 
themselves  with  supernatural  concerns, 
and  in  fearsome  endeavors  to  make 
themselves  secure  for  another  world  had 
neglected  this.  Man  had  tried  to  make 
peace  with  the  skies  instead  of  peace 
with  his  neighbor.  She  also  thought  she 
107 


Ibarrict  /ifcarttneau 


saw  clearly  that  right  living  was  one 
thing,  and  a  belief  in  theological  dogma 
another.  That  these  things  sometimes 
go  together  she  of  course  admitted,  but 
a  belief  in  a  "vicarious  atonement"  and 
a  "miraculous  conception"  she  did  not 
believe  made  a  man  a  gentler  husband, 
a  better  neighbor,  or  a  more  patriotic 
citizen.  Man  does  what  he  does  because 
he  thinks  at  the  moment  it  is  the  best 
thing  to  do.  And  if  you  could  make  men 
believe  that  peace,  truth,  honesty,  and 
industry  were  the  best  standards  to  adopt 
— bringing  the  best  results — all  men 
would  adopt  them.  There  are  no  such 
things  as  reward  and  punishment,  as 
these  terms  are  ordinarily  used,  there 
are  only  good  residts  and  bad  results. 
We  sow,  and  reap  what  we  have  sown. 

Miss  Martineau  had  long  believed 
these  things,  but  Comte  proved  them — 
proved  them  in  six  ponderous  tomes — 
and  she  set  herself  the  task  to  simplify 
his  philosophy. 

There  is  one  point  of  attraction  that 
108 


•fcarriet  Aarttneau 


Comte's  thought  had  for  Harriet  Marti- 
neau  that  I  have  never  seen  mentioned 
in  print — that  is,  his  mental  attitude  on 
the  value  of  love  in  a  well-ordered  life. 

In  the  springtime  of  his  manhood, 
Auguste  Comte,  sensitive,  confiding,  gen- 
erous, loved  a  beautiful  girl.  She  did  not 
share  his  intellectual  ambitions,  his  di- 
vine aspiration  :  she  was  only  a  beautiful 
animal.  Man  proposes  but  is  not  always 
accepted.  She  married  another  and 
Comte  was  disconsolate — for  a  day. 

He  pondered  the  subject,  read  the  lives 
of  various  great  men,  talked  with  monks 
and  sundry  friars  grey,  and  after  five 
years  wrote  out  at  length  the  reasons 
why  a  man  in  order  to  accomplish  a  far- 
reaching  and  splendid  work,  must  live 
the  life  of  a  celibate.  "To  achieve," 
said  Comte,  "  you  must  be  married  to 
your  work." 

Comte  lived  for  some  time  content  in 

this  philosophy,  constantly  strengthening 

it  and  buttressing  it  against  attack  ;  for 

we  believe  a  thing  first  and  skirmish  for 

109 


"barrier,  /flbartineau 


our  proof  afterward.  But  when  past 
forty,  and  his  hair  was  turning  to  silver 
and  crow's-feet  were  showing  themselves 
in  his  fine  face,  and  when  there  was  a 
halt  in  his  step  and  his  laughter  had  died 
away  into  a  weary  smile,  he  met  a  woman 
whose  nature  was  as  finely  sensitive  and 
as  silkenly  strong  as  his  own.  She  had 
intellect,  aspiration,  power.  She  was 
gentle,  and  a  womanly  woman,  withal  ; 
his  best  mood  was  matched  by  hers,  she 
sympathized  with  his  highest  ideal. 

They  loved  and  they  married. 

The  crow's-feet  disappeared  from 
Comte's  face,  the  halt  in  his  step  was 
gone,  the  laugh  returned,  and  people 
said  that  the  silver  in  his  hair  was  be- 
coming. 

Shortly  after,  Comte  set  himself  to 
work  overhauling  all  of  the  foolish  things 
he  had  said  about  the  necessity  of  celibacy. 
He  declared  that  a  man  without  his  mate 
only  stumbled  his  way  through  life. 
There  was  the  male  man  and  the  female 
man,  and  only  by  working  together  could 


Tbarrict  dfcartincau 


these  two  souls  hope  to  progress.  It  re 
quires  two  to  generate  thought.  Conite 
felt  sure  that  he  was  writing  the  final 
word.  He  avowed  that  there  was  no 
more  to  say.  He  declared  that  should 
his  wife  go  hence  the  fountains  of  his 
soul  would  dry  up ;  his  mind  would 
famish,  and  the  light  of  his  life  would 
go  out  in  darkness. 

The  gods  were  envious  of  such  love 
as  this. 

Comte's  mate  passed  away. 

He  was  stricken  dumb  ;  the  calamity 
was  too  great  for  speech  or  tears. 

But  five  years  after,  he  got  down  his 
books  and  went  over  his  manuscripts  and 
again  revised  his  philosophy  of  what 
constitutes  the  true  condition  for  the 
highest  and  purest  thought.  To  have 
known  a  great  and  exalted  love  and  have 
it  fade  from  your  grasp  and  flee  as 
shadow,  living  only  in  memory,  is  the 
highest  good,  he  wrote.  A  great  sorrow 
at  one  stroke,  purchases  a  redemption 
from  all  petty  troubles  ,  it  sinks  all  trivial 
in 


Datriet  Aartlneau 


annoyances  into  nothingness  and  grants 
the  man  life-long  freedom  from  all  petty, 
corroding  cares.  His  feelings  have  been 
sounded  to  their  depths — the  plummet 
has  touched  bottom.  Fate  has  done  her 
worst :  she  has  brought  him  face  to  face 
with  the  Supreme  Calamity,  and  there- 
after there  is  nothing  cau  inspire  terror. 

The  memory  of  a  great  love  can  never 
die  from  out  the  heart.  It  affords  a  bal- 
last 'gainst  all  the  storms  that  blow. 
And  although  it  lends  an  unutterable 
sadness,  it  imparts  an  unspeakable  peace. 

A  great  love,  even  when  fully  possessed, 
affords  no  complete  gratification.  There 
is  an  essence  in  it  that  eludes  all  owner- 
ship. Its  highest  use  seems  to  be  a  puri- 
fying impulse  for  nobler  endeavor.  It 
says  at  the  last,  "Arise,  and  get  thee 
hence  for  this  is  not  thy  rest. ' ' 

Where  there  is  this  haunting  memory 
of  a  great  love  lost  there  is  always  for- 
giveness, charity,  and  a  sympathy  that 
makes  the  man  brother  to  all  who  en- 
dure and  suffer.    The  individual  himself 

1X2 


tmrriet  dbartiiieau 


is  nothiug  ;  he  has  nothing  to  hope  for, 
nothing  to  gain,  nothing  to  win,  nothing 
to  lose  ;  for  the  first  time  and  the  last  he 
has  a  selflessness  that  is  wide  as  the  world 
and  wherein  there  is  no  room  for  the  rec- 
ollection of  a  wrong.  In  this  memory  of 
a  great  love  there  is  a  nourishing  source 
of  strength  by  which  the  possessor  lives 
aud  works  ;  he  is  in  communication  with 
elemental  conditions. 

Harriet  Martineau  was  a  life-long 
widow  of  the  heart.  That  first  great 
passion  of  her  early  womanhood,  the 
love  that  was  lost,  remained  with  her  all 
the  days  of  her  life :  springing  fresh 
every  morning,  her  last  thought  as  she 
closed  her  eyes  at  night.  Other  loves 
came  to  her,  attachments  varying  in 
nature  and  degree,  but  in  this  supreme 
love  all  was  fused  and  absorbed. 

In  this  love  you  get  the  secret  of  power. 

A  great  love  is  a  pain,  yet  it  is  a  benison 

and    a    benediction.     If  we    carry    any 

possession  from  this  world  to  another  it 

is  the  memory  of  a  great  love.     For  even 

113 


Tbarcict  /Rbartineau 


in  the  last  hour,  when  the  coldness  of 
death  shall  creep  into  the  stiffening  limbs, 
and  the  brain  shall  be  stunned  and  the 
thoughts  stifled,  there  shall  come  to  the 
tongue  a  name,  a  name  not  mentioned 
aloud  for  years — there  shall  come  a  name  ; 
and  as  the  last  flickering  rays  of  life  flare 
up  to  go  out  on  earth  forever,  the  tongue 
will  speak  this  name  that  was  long,  long 
ago  burned  into  the  soul  by  the  passion 
of  a  love  that  fadeth  not  away. 


"4 


CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 


»5 


I  was  not  surprised  when  I  went  down  into  the 
hall  to  see  that  a  brilliant  June  morning  had 
succeeded  to  the  tempest  of  the  night,  and  to  feel 
through  the  open  glass  door  the  breathing  of  a 
fresh  and  fragrant  breeze.  Nature  must  be  glad- 
some when  I  was  so  happy.  A  beggar  woman 
and  her  little  boy,  pale,  ragged  objects  both, 
were  coming  up  the  walk,  and  I  ran  down  and 
gave  them  all  the  money  I  happened  to  have  in 
my  purse — some  three  or  four  shillings  :  good  or 
bad  they  must  partake  of  my  jubilee.  The  rooks 
cawed  and  blither  birds  sung,  but  nothing  was 
so  merry  or  so  musical  as  my  own  rejoicing  heart. 

Jane  Eyre. 


116 


CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 


i. 


RUMOR  has  it  that  there  be  Ameri- 
cans who  are  never  happy  unless 
passing  for  Englishmen.  And  I 
think  I  have  discovered  a  like  anomaly 
on  the  part  of  the  sons  of  Ireland — a  wish 
to  pass  for  Frenchmen.  On  Continental 
hotel  registers  the  good  honest  name  of 
O'Brian  often  turns  queer  somersaults, 
and  more  than  once  in  "The  States" 
does  the  kingly  prefix  of  O  evolve  itself 
into  Van  or  De,  which  perhaps  is  quite 
proper  seeing  they  all  mean  the  same 
thing.  One  cause  of  this  tendency  may 
lie  in  the  fact  that  St.  Patrick  was  a  na- 
tive of  France  ;  although  St.  Patrick  may 
117 


Cbarlotte  JBronte 


or  may  not  have  been  chosen  patron 
saint  on  account  of  his  nationality.  But 
the  patron  saint  of  Ireland  being  a  French- 
man, what  more  natural,  and  therefore 
what  more  proper,  than  that  the  whole 
Emerald  Isle  should  slant  toward  the 
people  who  love  art  and  rabbit  stew  ! 
Anyway,  from  the  proud  patronymic  of 
Patricius  to  plain  Pat  is  quite  a  drop,  and 
my  heart  is  with  Paddy  in  his  efforts  to 
get  back. 

When  Patrick  Prunty  of  County  Down, 
Ireland,  shook  off  the  shackles  of  environ- 
ment, and  mud  of  the  peat  bog,  and  went 
across  to  England,  presenting  himself  at 
the  gates  of  St.  John's  College,  Cam- 
bridge, asking  for  admittance,  I  am  glad 
he  handed  in  his  name  as  Mr.  P.  Bronte, 
accent  on  the  last  syllable. 

There  is  a  gentle  myth  abroad  that 
preachers  are  "  called,"  while  other  men 
adopt  a  profession  or  get  a  job,  but  no 
Protestant  Episcopal  clergyman  I  have 
ever  known,  and  I  have  known  many, 
ever  made  any  such  claim.  They  take 
1x8 


(Jbarlotte  JBronte 


up  the  profession  because  it  supplies 
honors  and  a  "  living."  Then  they  can 
do  good  too,  and  all  men  want  to  do  good. 
So  they  hie  them  to  a  divinity  school  and 
are  taught  the  mysteries  of  theological 
tierce  and  thrust ;  and  interviewing  a 
clerical  tailor  they  are  ready  to  accept 
the  honors  and  partake  of  the  living. 
After  a  careful  study  of  the  life  of  Patrick 
Bronte  I  cannot  find  that  his  ambition 
extended  beyond  the  desirable  things  I 
have  named,  that  is  to  say  inclusively, 
honors  and  a  living. 

He  was  tall,  athletic,  dark,  and  surely 
a  fellow  of  force  and  ambition  to  set  his 
back  on  the  old  and  boldly  rap  for  admit- 
tance at  the  gates  of  Cambridge.  He  was 
a  pretty  good  student  too,  although  a  bit 
quarrelsome  and  sometimes  mischievous 
— throwing  his  force  into  quite  unneces- 
sary ways,  as  Irishmen  are  apt  to  do.  He 
fell  in  love,  of  course,  and  has  not  an 
Irishman  in  love  been  likened  to  Vesuvius 
in  state  of  eruption  ?  We  know  of  at 
least  one  charming  girl  who  refused  to 
119 


Cbarlotte  ttrontl 

marry  him  because  he  declined,  unlike 
Othello,  to  tell  the  story  of  his  life.  And 
it  was  assumed  that  any  man  who  would 
not  tell  who  "his  folks"  were,  was  a 
rogue  and  a  varlet  and  a  vagrom  at  heart. 
And  all  the  while  Monsieur  Bronte  had 
nothing  worse  to  conceal  than  that  he 
was  from  County  Down  and  his  name 
Prunty.  He  would  n't  give  in  and  tell 
the  story  of  his  life  to  slow  music  and  so 
the  girl  wept  and  then  stormed,  and 
finally  Bronte  stormed  and  went  away, 
and  the  girl  and  her  parents  were  sure 
that  the  Frenchman  was  a  murderer 
escaping  justice.  Fortunate,  aye,  thrice 
fortunate  is  it  for  the  world  that  neither 
Bronte  nor  the  girl  wavered  even  in  the 
estimation  of  a  hair. 

Bronte  got  through  school  and  came 
out  with  tuppence  worth  of  honors. 
When  thirty  we  find  him  established  as 
curate  at  the  shabby  little  town  of  Harts- 
head,  in  Yorkshire.  Little  Miss  Bran- 
well,  from  Penzance,  came  up  there  on  a 
visit  to  her  uncle,  and  the  Reverend 
1 20 


Cbarlotte  JBrcmte 


Bronte  at  once  fell  violently  in  love  with 
her  dainty  form  and  gentle  ways.  I  say 
"  violently  "  for  that 's  the  kind  of  a  man 
Bronte  was.  Darwin  says:  "The  faculty 
of  amativeness  is  not  aroused  excepting 
by  the  unfamiliar."  Girls  who  go  away 
visiting,  wearing  their  best  bib  and  tucker, 
find  lovers  without  fail.  One  third  of  all 
marriages  in  the  United  States  occur  in 
just  this  way  :  the  bib  and  tucker  being 
sprung  on  the  young  man  as  a  surprise, 
dazzles  and  hypnotizes  him  into  an  avowal 
and  an  engagement. 

And  so  they  were  married — were  Rev. 
Patrick  Bronte  and  Miss  Maria  Branwell. 
He  was  big,  bold,  and  dictatorial  :  she 
was  little,  shy,  and  sensitive.  The  babies 
came — one  in  less  than  a  year,  then  a 
year  apart.  The  dainty  little  woman  had 
her  troubles,  we  are  sure  of  that.  Her 
voice  comes  to  us  only  as  a  plaintive  echo. 
When  she  asked  to  have  the  bread  passed 
she  always  apologized.  Once  her  aunt 
sent  her  a  present  of  a  pretty  silk  dress, 
for  country  clergymen's  wives  do  not 
121 


Cbartotte  Bronte 


have  many  luxuries,  don't  you  know  that? 
and  Patrick  Bronte  cut  the  dress  into 
strips  before  her  eyes  and  then  threw  the 
pieces,  and  the  little  slippers  to  match, 
into  the  fireplace,  to  teach  his  wife  humil- 
ity. He  used  to  practise  with  a  pistol 
and  shoot  in  the  house  to  steady  the 
lady's  nerves,  and  occasionally  he  got 
plain  drunk.  A  man  like  Bronte  in  a  lit- 
tle town  with  a  tired  little  wife,  and  with 
inferior  people,  is  a  despot.  He  busies 
himself  with  trifles,  looks  after  foolish 
details  and  the  neighbors  let  him  have 
his  own  way  and  his  wife  has  to,  and  the 
result  is  that  he  becomes  convinced  in 
his  own  mind  that  he  is  the  people  and 
wisdom  will  die  with  him. 

And  yet  Bronte  wrote  some  pretty  good 
poetry  and  had  faculties  that  rightly  de- 
veloped might  have  made  him  an  excel- 
lent man.  He  should  have  gone  down 
to  London  (or  up,  because  it  is  South) 
and  there  come  into  competition  with 
,  men  as  strong  as  himself.  Fate  should 
have  seized  him  by  the  hair  and  bumped 

122 


Cbarlotte  JSronte 


his  head  against  stone  walls  and  cuffed 
him  thoroughly  and  kicked  him  into  line, 
teaching  him  humility,  then  out  of  the 
scrimmage  we  might  have  gotten  a  really 
superior  product. 

Mrs.  Bronte  became  a  confirmed  in- 
valid. A  man  cannot  always  badger  a 
woman ;  God  is  good — she  dies.  Little 
Marja  Branwell  had  been  married  eight 
years ;  when  she  passed  out  she  left  six 
children,  "all  of  a  size,"  a  neighbor 
woman  has  written.  Over  her  grave  is 
a  tablet  erected  by  her  husband  inform- 
ing the  wayfarer  that  "she  has  gone 
to  meet  her  Saviour."  At  the  bottom  is 
this  warning  to  all  women  :  "  Be  ye  also 
ready  ;  for  in  such  an  hour  as  ye  think 
not  the  Son  of  Man  cotneth." 

Five  of  these  motherless  children  were 
girls  and  one  a  boy.  As  you  stand  there 
in  that  stone  church  at  Haworth  reading 
the  inscription  above  Maria  Branwell's 
grave  you  can  also  read  the  death  record 
of  the  babes  she  left.  The  mother  died 
September  15,  1821  ;  her  oldest  daughter 
123 


Charlotte  Bronte 


Maria,  May  6,  1825 ;  Elizabeth,  June  15, 
1825 ;  Patrick  Branwell,  September  24, 
1848;  Emily,  Dec.  19,  1848;  Anne,  May 
28,  1849  !  Charlotte,  March  31,  1855. 

Those  whom  the  gods  love  die  young  : 
the  Rev.  Patrick  Bronte  lived  to  be 
eighty-five. 


124 


IL 


I  GOT  out  of  the  train  at  Keighley,  which 
you  must  pronounce  "Keethley," 
and  leaving  my  valise  with  the  sta- 
tion master  started  on  foot  for  Hawortb, 
four  miles  away.  Keighley  is  a  manufac- 
turing town  where  various  old  mansions 
have  been  turned  into  factories  and  where 
new  factories  have  sprung  up,  square, 
spick-span  trimmed  stone  buildings,  with 
fire-escapes  and  red  tanks  on  top. 

One  of  these  old  mansions  I  saw  had 
a  fine  copper  roof  that  shone  in  the  sun 
like  a  monster  Lake  Superior  agate.  It 
stands  a  bit  back  from  the  road,  and  on 
one  great  gate  post  is  a  brass  plate  read- 
ing "  Cardigan  Hall "  and  on  the  other  a 
sign  "No  admittance — apply  at  the  Of- 
fice." So  I  applied  at  the  office,  which  is 
evidently  the  ancient  lodge,  and  asked  if 
Mr.  Cardigan  was  in.    Four  clerks  perched 

I35 


Charlotte  SBrontl 


on  high  stools,  crouching  over  big  ledgers, 
dropped  their  pens  and  turning  on  their 
spiral  seats  looked  at  me  with  staring 
eyes,  and  with  mouths  wide  open.  I 
repeated  the  question  and  one  of  the 
quartette,  a  wheezy  little  old  man  in 
spectacles  and  whiskers  on  his  neck, 
clambered  down  from  his  elevated  posi- 
tion and  ambled  over  near,  walking 
around  me,  eying  me  curiously. 

"  Go  wan  wi'  yer  wurruk,  ye  idlers  !  " 
he  suddenly  commanded  the  others. 
And  then  he  explained  to  me  that  Mr. 
Cardigan  was  not  in,  neither  was  Mr. 
Jackson.  In  fact  Mr.  Cardigan  had  not 
been  in  for  a  hundred  years — being  dead. 
But  if  I  wanted  to  look  at  goods  I  could 
be  accommodated  with  bargains  fully 
five  per  cent  below  L,unnon  market.  The 
little  old  man  was  in  such  serious  earnest 
that  I  felt  it  would  be  a  sin  to  continue 
a  joke.  I  explained  that  I  was  only  a 
tourist  in  search  of  the  picturesque,  and 
thereby  did  I  drop  ten  points  in  the  old 
man's  estimation.  But  this  did  I  learn, 
126 


Cbariotte  JBronte 


that  Lord  Cardigan  has  won  deathless 
fame  by  attaching  his  name  to  a  knit 
jacket,  just  as  the  name  Jaeger  will  go 
clattering  down  the  corridors  of  time  at- 
tached to  a  "combination  suit." 

This  splendid  old  mansion  was  once 
the  ancestral  home  of  a  branch  of  the 
noble  family  of  Cardigan.  But  things 
got  somewhat  shuffled,  through  too  many 
hot  suppers  up  to  Loudon  (being  South), 
and  stacks  of  reds  and  stacks  of  blues 
were  drawn  in  towards  the  dealer,  and  so 
the  old  mansion  fell  under  the  hammer 
of  the  auctioneer.  What  an  all-powerful 
thing  is  an  auctioneer's  hammer !  And 
now  from  the  great  parlors,  and  the 
library,  and  the  ' '  hall ' '  and  the  guest- 
chambers  echo  the  rattle  of  spinning 
jennys  and  the  dull  booming  of  whirling 
pulleys.  And  above  the  song  of  whirring 
wheels  came  the  songs  of  girls  at  their 
work  ;  voices  that  alone  might  have  been 
harsh  and  discordant,  but  blending  with 
the  monotone  of  the  factory's  roar  were 
really  melodious. 

137 


Cbarlottc  JBrcmtc 


,:We    cawu't    keep  the  nasty  thing 
from  singin',"  said  the  old   man  apolo- 
getically. 

"  Why  should  you  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Huh,  mon !  but  they  sing  sacred 
songs,  and  chauuts,  and  a'  that,  and  say 
all  together  from  twenty  rooms,  a  hun- 
dred times  a  day,  '  Aws  ut  wuz  in  th'  be- 
ginning uz  now  awn  ever  shawl  be,  worl' 
wi'out  end,  Aamen.'  It  's  not  right.  I 
've  told  Mr.  Jackson.  Listen  now,  did 
n't  I  tell  ye?" 

"Then  you  are  a  Churchman  ?  " 

And  the  old  man  wiped  his  glasses  and 
told  me  that  he  was  a  Churchman,  al- 
though an  unworthy  one,  and  had  been 
for  fifty-four  years,  come  Michaelmas. 
Yes,  he  had  always  lived  here,  was  born 
only  across  the  beck  away — his  father 
was  game-keeper  for  Lord  Cardigan,  and 
afterwards  agent.  He  had  been  to  Ha- 
worth  many  times,  although  not  for  ten 
years.  He  knew  the  Rev.  Patrick  Bronte 
well,  for  the  Incumbent  from  Haworth 
used  to  preach  at  Keighley  once  a  year, 
128 


Cbarlctte  aSrcnte 


aud  sometimes  twice.  Bronte  was  a  fine 
man  with  a  splendid  voice  for  intoning  ; 
and  very  strict  about  keeping  out  all 
heresies  and  such.  He  had  a  lot  of  trou- 
ble, had  Bronte  :  his  wife  died  aud  left 
him  eight  or  ten  children,  all  smart,  but 
rather  wild.  They  gave  him  a  lot  of 
bother,  especially  the  boy.  One  of  the 
girls  married  Mr.  Bronte's  curate,  Mr. 
Nicholls,  a  very  decent  kind  of  man  who 
comes  to  Keighley  once  a  year,  and  al- 
ways comes  to  the  factory  to  ask  how 
things  are  going. 

Yes,  Mr.  Nicholls'  first  wife  died  years 
and  years  ago.  She  used  to  write  things 
— novels  ;  but  no  one  should  read  novels  ; 
novels  are  stories  that  are  not  so — things 
that  never  happened  ;  they  tell  of  folks 
that  never  was. 

Having  no  argument  to  present  in  way 
of  rebuttal,  I  shook  hands  with  the  old 
man  and  started  away.  He  walked  with 
me  to  the  road  to  put  me  on  the  right 
way  to  Haworth.  Looking  back  as  I 
reached  the  corner,  I  saw  four  "  clarks" 
129 


Cbarlotte  JBronte 


watching  me  intently  from  the  office 
windows,  and  from  above  the  roar  and 
jangle  of  machinery  was  borne  on  the 
summer  breeze  the  sound  of  sacred  song 
— shrill  feminine  voices  : 

"  Aws  ut  wuz  in  th'  beginnin',  uz  now 
awn  ever  shawl  be,  worl'  wi'out  end — 
Aamen ! " 


T3° 


ni. 

AS  one  moves  out  of  Keighley  the 
country  becomes  stony ;  the  trees 
are  left  behind,  and  there  rise  on 
all  sides  billow  on  billow  of  purple  heath- 
er. The  way  is  rough  as  the  Pilgrim's 
Progress  road  to  Paradise.  These  hillside 
moors  are  filled  with  springs  that  high  up 
form  rills,  then  brooks,  then  cascades  or 
"  becks,"  and  along  the  Haworth  road, 
wherever  one  of  these  hurrying,  scurry- 
ing, dancing -becks  crosses  the  highway, 
there  is  a  factory  devoted  to  keeping 
alive  the  name  of  Cardigan.  Next  to  the 
factory  is  a  "  pub.,"  and  publics  and 
factories  checker  themselves  all  along 
the  route.  Mixed  in  with  these  are  long 
rows  of  tenement  houses  well  built  of 
stone,  and  slate  roofs,  but  with  a  grimy 
air  of  desolation  about  them  that  surely 


Cbarlotte  JSronte 

drives  their  occupants  to  drink.  To  have 
a  home  a  man  must  build  it  himself. 
Forty  houses  in  a  row,  all  alike,  are  not 
homes  at  all. 

I  believe  an  observant  man  once  wrote 
of  the  hand  being  subdued  to  what  it 
works  in.  The  man  who  wrote  that 
surely  never  tramped  along  the  Haworth 
road  as  the  bell  rang  for  twelve  o'clock. 
From  out  the  factories  poured  a  motley 
mob  of  men,  women,  and  children,  not 
only  with  hands  dyed,  but  clothing,  faces, 
and  heads  as  well.  Girls  with  bright 
green  hair,  and  lemon-colored  faces, 
leered  and  jeered  at  me  as  they  hastened 
pell-mell  with  hats  askew,  and  stockings 
down,  and  dragging  shawls,  for  home  or 
public  house.  Red  and  maroon  children 
ran,  and  bright  scarlet  men  smoked  stol- 
idly, taking  their  time  with  genuine 
grim  Yorkshire  sullen  sourness. 

"  How  far  is  it  to  Haworth  ?  "  I  asked 
one  such  specimen. 

"  Ef  ye  pay  th'  siller  for  a  double  pot 
a'  'arf  and  'arf,  hi  might  tell  ye  "  ;  and 
132 


Cbarlotte  JBronte 


he  jerked  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder 
toward  a  gin-shop  near  by. 

"  Very  well,"  said  I,  "I  '11  buy  you  a 
double  pot  of  'arf  and  'arf,  this  time." 

The  man  seemed  a  bit  surprised  but  no 
smile  came  over  his  spattered  rainbow 
face  as  he  led  the  way  into  the  drink- 
shop.  The  place  was  crowded  with  men 
and  women  scrambling  for  penny  sand- 
wiches and  drinks  fermented  and  spirit- 
ous.  Some  of  these  women  had  babies  at 
their  breasts,  the  babies  being  brought 
by  appointment  by  older  children  who 
stayed  at  home  while  the  mothers  worked. 
And  as  the  mothers  gulped  their  triple 
XXX,  and  swallowed  hunks  of  black 
bread,  the  little  innocents  dined.  The 
mothers  were  rather  kindly  disposed, 
though,  and  occasionally  allowed  the 
youngsters  to  take  sips  out  of  their  foam- 
ing glasses,  or  at  least  to  drain  them. 
Suddenly  a  woman  with  purple  hair  spied 
me  out  and  called  in  falsetto  : 

"  Ah,   Sawndy  McClure  has  caught  a 

133 


Cbarlotte  JBronte 


gen'l'mou.  Why  did  n't  I  see  'im  fust 
an'  'arve  'im  fer  a  pet?  " 

There  was  a  guffaw  at  my  expense  and 
'arf  and  'arf  as  well,  for  all  the  party,  or 
else  quarrel.  As  it  was,  my  stout  stick 
probably  saved  me  from  the  "personal 
touch."  I  stayed  until  the  factory  bells 
rang,  and  out  my  new-found  friends  scur- 
ried for  fear  of  being  the  fatal  five  min- 
utes late  and  getting  locked  out.  Some 
of  them  shook  my  hand  as  they  went 
and  others  pounded  me  on  the  back  for 
luck,  and  several  of  the  girls  got  my  tag 
and  shouted  "  You  're  it !  " 

I  used  to  think  that  Yorkshire  folks 
were  hopelessly  dull  and  sublimely 
stupid;  quarrelsome  withal  and  pigheaded 
to  the  thirty-second  degree,  but  I  have 
partially  come  to  the  conclusion  that  their 
glum  ways  often  conceal  a  peculiar  kind 
of  grim  humor  and  beneath  the  tough 
husk  is  considerable  good  nature. 

The  absence  of  large  trees  make  it  pos- 
sible to  see  the  village  of  Haworth  several 
miles  away.  It  seems  to  cling  to  the 
134 


Cbarlotte  JSronte 


stony  hillside  as  if  it  feared  being  blown 
into  space.  There  is  a  hurrying,  rushing 
rill  here,  too,  that  turns  a  little  woollen 
mill.  Then  there  is  a  "Black  Bull" 
tavern,  with  a  stable  }'ard  at  the  side  and 
rows  of  houses  on  the  one  street,  all  very 
straight  up  and  down.  One  misses  the 
climbing  roses  of  ideal  merry  England, 
and  the  soft  turf  and  spreading  yews  and 
the  flowering  hedge-rows  where  throstles 
and  linnets  play  hide-and-seek  the  live- 
long day.  It  is  all  cold  grey  stone,  lichen 
covered,  and  the  houses  do  not  invite 
you  to  enter  and  the  gardens  bid  no  wel- 
come, and  only  the  great  purple  wastes 
of  moorland  greet  you  as  a  friend  and 
brother. 

Outside  the  Black  Bull  sits  a  solitary 
hostler  who  feels  it  would  be  a  weakness 
to  show  any  good  humor.  So  he  bottles 
his  curiosity  and  scowls  from  under  red 
bushy  eyebrows. 

Turning  off  the  main  street  is  a  narrow 
road  leading  to  the  church — square  and 
grey  and  cold.  Next  to  it  is  the  parson- 
i35 


Cbarlotte  JBronte 


age,  built  of  the  same  material,  and  be- 
yond is  the  crowded  city  of  tbe  dead. 

I  plied  the  knocker  at  the  parsonage 
door  and  asked  for  the  rector.  He  was 
away  at  Kendal  to  attend  a  funeral,  but  his 
wife  was  at  home — a  pleasant  matronly 
woman  of  near  sixty  with  smooth  white 
hair.  She  came  to  the  door  knitting 
furiously  but  from  her  regulation  smile  I 
saw  that  visitors  were  not  uncommon. 

"You  want  to  see  the  home  of  the 
Brontes.  That  's  right,  come  right  in. 
This  was  the  study  of  the  Rev.  Patrick 
Bronte,  Incumbent  of  this  Parish  for  fifty 
years.  »»••.• 

She  sang  her  little  song  and  knitted 
and  shifted  the  needles  and  measured  the 
foot,  for  the  stocking  was  nearly  done. 
It  was  a  blue  stocking  (although  she 
was  n't)  with  a  white  toe ;  and  all  the 
time  she  led  me  from  room  to  room  tell- 
ing me  about  the  Brontes — how  there 
was  the  father,  mother,  and  six  children . 
They  all  came  together.  The  mother 
died  shortly  and  then  two  of  the  little 
136 


Cbarlotte  ftronte 


girls  died.  That  left  three  girls  and 
Branwell  the  boy.  He  was  petted  and 
made  too  much  of  by  his  father  and 
everybody.  He  was  the  one  that  always 
was  going  to  do  great  things.  He  made 
the  girls  wait  on  him  and  cuffed  them  if 
they  did  n't,  and  if  they  did,  and  all  the 
time  told  of  the  things  he  was  going  to 
do.  But  he  never  did  them,  for  he  spent 
most  of  his  time  at  the  taverns.  After  a 
while  he  died— died  of  the  tremens. 

The  three  Bronte  girls,  Emily,  Char- 
lotte, and  Annie,  wrote  a  novel  apiece,  and 
never  showed  them  to  their  father  or  any 
one.  They  called  'emselves  Currer,  Ellis, 
and  Acton  Bell,  and  their  novels  were  the 
greatest  ever  written — they  wrote  them 
'emselves  with  no  man  to  help.  Their 
father  was  awful  mad  about  it,  but  when 
the  money  began  to  come  in  he  felt  better. 
Emily  died  when  she  was  twenty-seven. 
She  was  the  brightest  of  them  all ;  then 
Annie  died  and  only  Charlotte  and  the 
old  man  were  left.  Charlotte  married 
her  father's  curate,  but  old  Mr.  Bronte 
137 


Cbarlotte  JBront^ 


would  n't  go  to  the  wedding  :  he  went  to 
the  Black  Bull  instead.  Miss  Wooler  gave 
the  bride  away — some  one  had  to  give  her 
away,  you  know.  The  bride  was  thirty- 
eight.  She  died  in  less  than  a  year,  and 
old  Mr.  Bronte  and  Charlotte's  husband 
lived  here  alone  together. 

This  was  Charlotte's  room,  this  is  the 
desk  where  she  wrote  Jane  Eyre — least- 
wise they  say  it  is.  This  is  the  chair  she 
sat  in,  and  under  that  framed  glass  are 
several  sheets  of  her  manuscript.  The 
writing  is  almost  too  small  to  read  ;  and 
so  fine  and  yet  so  perfect  and  neat !  She 
was  a  wonderful  tidy  body,  very  small 
and  delicate  and  gentle,  yet  with  a  good 
deal  of  her  father's  energy. 

Here  are  letters  she  wrote :  you  can 
look  at  them  if  you  choose.  This  foot- 
stool she  made  and  covered  herself.  It  is 
filled  with  heather  blossoms— just  as  she 
left  it.  Those  books  were  hers  too— many 
of  them  given  to  her  by  great  authors. 
See,  there  is  Thackeray's  name  written  by 
himself  and  a  letter  from  him  pasted  in- 
138 


Cbarlotte  JSronte 


side  the  front  cover.  He  was  a  big  man 
they  say  but  he  wrote  very  small,  and 
Charlotte  wrote  just  like  him,  ouly  better, 
and  now  there  are  hundreds  of  folks  write 
like  'em  both.  Then  here  's  a  book  with 
Miss  Martiueau's  name,  and  another  from 
Robert  Browning — do  you  know  who  he 
was? 

Yes,  the  church  is  always  open.  Go 
in  and  stay  as  long  as  you  choose  ;  at  the 
door  is  a  poor  box  and  if  you  wish  to  put 
something  in  you  can  do  so — a  sixpence 
most  visitors  put  in,  or  a  shilling  if  you 
insist  on  it.  You  know  we  are  not  a 
rich  parish — the  wool  all  goes  to  Man- 
chester now  and  the  factory  hands  are 
on  half  pay  and  times  are  scarce.  You 
will  come  again  sometime,  come  when 
the  heather  is  in  bloom,  won't  you  ? 
That 's  right.  Oh,  stay  !  the  boxwood 
there  in  the  garden  was  planted  by  Char- 
lotte's own  hands — perhaps  you  would 
like  a  sprig  of  it — there,  I  thought  you 
would  ! 

139 


IV. 

ALL  who  write  concerning  the 
Brontes  dwell  on  the  sadness  and 
the  tragedy  of  their  lives.  They 
picture  Charlotte's  earth-journey  as  one 
devoid  of  happiness,  lacking  all  that 
sweetens  and  makes  for  satisfaction. 
They  forget  that  she  wrote  Jane  Eyre 
and  that  no  person  utterly  miserable  ever 
did  a  great  work,  and  I  assume  that  they 
know  not  of  the  wild,  splendid,  intoxi- 
cating joy  that  follows  a  performance 
well  done.  To  be  sure  Jane  Eyre  is  a 
tragedy,  but  the  author  of  a  tragedy  must 
be  greater  than  the  plot — greater  than 
his  puppets.  He  is  their  creator  and  his 
life  runs  through  and  pervades  theirs  just 
as  the  life  of  our  Creator  flows  through 
us.  In  Him  we  live  and  move  and 
have  our  being.  And  I  submit  that  the 
140 


Charlotte  JBronte 


writer  of  a  tragedy  is  not  east  down  or 
undone  at  the  time  he  pictures  his  heroic 
situations  and  conjures  forth  his  strut- 
ting spirits.  When  the  play  ends  and  the 
curtain  falls  on  the  fifth  act  there  is  still 
one  man  alive  and  that  is  the  author.  He 
may  be  gorged  with  crime  and  surfeited 
with  blood  but  there  is  a  surging  exulta- 
tion in  his  veins  as  he  views  the  ruin  that 
his  brain  has  wrought. 

Charlotte  loved  the  great  stretch  of 
purple  moors,  hill  on  hill  fading  away 
into  eternal  mist.  And  the  wild  winds 
that  sighed  and  moaned  at  casements  or 
raged  in  sullen  wrath,  tugging  at  the  roof, 
were  her  friends.  She  loved  them  all 
and  thought  of  them  as  visiting  spirits. 
They  were  her  proper  ties,  and  no  writer 
who  ever  lived  has  made  such  splendid 
use  of  winds  and  storm-clouds  and  driv- 
ing rain  as  did  Charlotte  Bronte.  Peo- 
ple who  point  to  the  chasing  angry  clouds 
and  the  swish  of  dripping  rose  bushes 
blown  against  the  cottage  windows  as 
proof  of  Charlotte  Bronte's  chronic  de- 


Cbarlottc  Bronte 


pression  know  not  the  eager  joy  of  a  storm 
walk.  And  I  am  sure  they  never  did  as 
one  I  know  did  last  night  :  saddle  a  horse 
at  ten  o'clock  and  gallop  away  into  the 
darkness  ;  splash,  splash  in  the  sighing, 
moaning,  bellowing,  driving  November 
rain.  There  's  joy  for  you  !  ye  who  toast 
your  feet  on  the  fender  and  cultivate  sick 
headache  around  the  base  burner — there 's 
a  life  that  ye  never  guess  ! 

But  Charlotte  knew  the  clouds  by  night 
and  the  swift-sailing  moon  that  gave  just 
one  peep  out  and  disappeared.  She  knew 
the  rifts  where  the  stars  shone  through, 
and  out  alone  in  the  breeze  that  blew 
away  her  cares  she  lifted  her  voice  in 
thankfulness  for  the  joy  of  mixing  with 
the  elements,  and  that  her  spirit  was  one 
with  the  boisterous  winds  of  heaven. 

People  who  live  in  beautiful  quiet  val- 
leys, where  roses  bloom  all  the  year 
through  are  not  necessarily  happy. 
Southern  California — the  Garden  of 
Eden  of  the  world — evolves  just  as  many 
cases  per  capita  of  melancholia  as  bleak, 
142 


Charlotte  JBrontc 

barren  Maine.  Wild,  rocky,  forbidding 
Scotland  has  produced  more  genius  to 
the  acre  than  beautiful  England :  and  I 
have  found  that  sailor  Jack,  facing  the 
North  Atlantic  winter  storms,  year  after 
year,  is  a  deal  jollier  companion  than  the 
Florida  cracker  whose  chief  adversary  is 
mosquitos. 

Charlotte  Bronte  wrote  three  great 
books,  Jane  Eyre,  Shirley,  and  Villette. 
From  the  lonely,  bleak  parsonage  on  that 
stony  hillside  she  sent  forth  her  swaying 
filament  of  thought  and  lassoed  the  world. 
She  lived  to  know  that  she  had  won. 
Money  came  to  her,  all  she  needed,  hon- 
ors, friends,  and  lavish  praise.  She  was 
the  foremost  woman  author  of  her  day. 
Her  name  was  on  every  tongue.  She  had 
met  the  world  in  fair  fight  ;  without  pa- 
trons, paid  advocates,  or  influential  friends 
she  made  her  way  10  the  very  front.  Her 
genius  was  acknowledged.  She  accom- 
plished all  that  she  set  out  to  do  and 
more — far  more.  The  great,  the  learned, 
the  titled,  the  proud  ;  all  those  who  rev- 
143 


Charlotte  Bronte 


erence  the  tender  heart  and  far-reaching 
mind  acknowledged  her  as  queen. 

So  why  prate  of  her  sorrows !  did  she 
not  work  them  up  into  art  ?  Why  weep 
over  her  troubles  when  these  were  the 
weapons  with  which  she  won  ?  Why  sit 
in  sackcloth  on  account  of  her  early  death 
when  it  is  appointed  of  all  men  once  to 
die,  and  with  her  the  grave  was  swallowed 
up  in  victory  ! 


144 


CHRISTINA  ROSSETTL 


145 


My  life  is  but  a  working  day. 
Whose  tasks  are  set  aright : 
A  while  to  work,  a  while  to  pray, 
And  then  a  quiet  night. 
And  then,  please  God,  a  quiet  night 
Where  Saints  and  Angels  walk  in  white  . 
One  dreamless  sleep  from  work  and  sorrow, 
But  re-awakening  on  the  morrow. 

In  Patience. 


I46 


CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI. 


CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI. 


AS  a  study  in  heredity,  the  Rossetti 
family  is  most  interesting.  Ge- 
nius seems  so  sporadic  a  stuff 
that  "vhen  we  find  an  outcrop  along  the 
line  of  a  whole  family  we  are  wont  to 
mark  it  on  memory's  chart  in  red.  We 
talk  of  the  Herschels,  of  Renan  and  his 
sister,  of  the  Beechers,  and  the  Fields,  in 
a  sort  of  awe,  mindful  that  Nature  is  par- 
simonious in  giving  out  transcendent  tal- 
ent and  may  never  do  the  like  again.  So 
who  can  forget  the  Rossettis — two  broth- 
ers, Dante  Gabriel  and  William  Michael 
— and  two  sisters,  Maria  and  Christina 
— each  of  whom  stands  forth  as  far  above 
the  ordinary,  yet  all  strangely  dependent 
on  one  another  ? 

147 


Cbristina  Iftossettt 


The  girls  sing  songs  to  the  brothers, 
and  to  each  other,  inscribing  poems  to 
"  rny  loving  sister  "  ;  when  Dante  Ga- 
briel, budding  forth  as  artist,  wishes 
a  model  for  a  Madonna,  he  chooses 
his  sister  Christina,  and  in  his  sketch 
mantles  the  plain  features  with  a  divine 
gentleness  and  heavenly  splendor  such 
as  only  the  loving  heart  can  conjure 
forth.  In  the  last  illness  of  Maria, 
Christina  watches  away  the  long,  lag- 
ging hours  of  night,  almost  striving  with 
her  brothers  for  the  right  of  serving ; 
and  at  Birchington-on-the-Sea,  Dante 
Gabriel  waits  for  death,  wearing  out  his 
friends  by  insane  suspicions,  and  only 
the  sister  seems  equal  to  ministering 
to  this  mind  diseased,  plucking  from 
memory  its  rooted  sorrow. 

In  a  few  years  Christina  passes  out 
and  of  the  four,  only  William  is  left ; 
and  the  task  of  his  remaining  years  is  to 
put  properly  before  the  world  the  death- 
less lives  of  his  brother  and  sisters  gone. 

Gabriel  Rossetti,  father  of  the  illustri- 
148 


Cbristina  TCossettf 


ous  four,  was  an  Italian  poet  who  wrote 
patriotic  hymns,  and  wrote  them  so  well 
that  he  was  asked  to  sing  them  elsewhere 
than  in  Italy.  This  edict  of  banishment 
was  followed  by  an  order  that  the  poet 
be  arrested  and  executed.  The  orders 
of  banishment  and  execution  appear 
quite  Milesian  viewed  across  the  years, 
but  to  Rossetti  it  was  no  joke.  To  keep 
his  head  in  its  proper  place  and  to  pre- 
serve his  soul  alive  he  departed  one  dark 
night  for  England.  He  arrived  penni- 
less, with  no  luggage  save  his  lyre,  but 
with  muse  intact.  Yet  it  was  an  Italian 
lyre,  and  therefore  of  small  avail  for 
amusing  Britons.  Very  naturally  Ros- 
setti made  the  acquaintance  of  other 
refugees,  and  exile  makes  fast  friends. 
It  is  only  in  prosperity  that  we  throw 
our  friends   overboard. 

He  came  to  know  the  Polidori  family 
—Tuscan  refugees — proud,  intellectual, 
and  rich.  He  loved  one  of  the  daugh- 
ters of  Seignior  Polidori,  and  she  loved 
him.  He  was  forty  and  she  was  twenty- 
149 


Cbristina  "Rogsetti 


three  —  but  what  of  that !  A  position 
as  Professor  of  Languages  was  secured 
for  him  in  King's  College.  He  rented 
the  house  No.  38  Charlotte  Street,  off 
Portland  Place,  and  there,  on  Febru- 
ary 17,  1827,  was  born  their  first  child, 
Maria  Francesca ;  on  May  12,  1828,  was 
born  Dante  Gabriel  ;    on  September  25, 

1829,  William  Michael ;  on  December  5, 

1830,  Christina  Georgiana.  The  mother 
of  this  quartette  was  a  sturdy  little 
woman  with  a  sparkling  wit  and  rare 
good  sense.  She  used  to  remark  that 
her  children  were  all  of  a  size,  and  that 
it  was  no  more  trouble  to  bring  up 
four  than  one,  a  suggestion  thrown  in 
here  gratis  for  the  benefit  of  young  mar- 
ried folks  in  the  hope  that  they  will  mark 
and  inwardly  digest.  In  point  of  well- 
ballasted,  all  'round  character,  fit  for 
earth  or  heaven,  none  of  the  four  Ros- 
setti  children  was  equal  to  his  parents. 
They  all  seem  to  have  had  nerves  out- 
side of  their  clothes.  Perhaps  this  was 
because  they  were  brought   up  in  I<on- 

150 


Cbristina  "Rossetti 


don.  A  city  is  no  place  for  children — 
nor  grown  people  either,  I  often  think. 
Birds  and  children  belong  in  the  coun- 
try. Paved  streets,  stone  sidewalks, 
smoke-begrimed  houses,  signs  reading 
"Keep  off  the  grass,"  prying  policemen, 
and  zealous  ash-box  inspectors  are  in- 
sulting things  to  greet  the  gaze  of  the 
little  immigrants  fresh  from  God.  Small 
wonder  is  it,  as  they  grow  up,  that  they 
take  to  drink  and  drugs,  seeking  in  these 
a  respite  from  the  rattle  of  wheels  and 
the  never-ending  cramp  of  unkind  con- 
dition. But  Nature  understands  herself: 
the  second  generation,  city-bred,  is  im- 
potent. 

No  pilgrim  from  "the  States"  should 
visit  the  city  of  London  without  carry- 
ing two  books  :  a  Baedeker's  London 
and  Hutton's  Literary  Landmarks.  The 
chief  advantage  of  the  former  is  that  it  is 
bound  in  flaming  red,  and  carried  in  the 
hand  advertises  the  owner  as  an  Ameri- 
can, thus  saving  all  formal  introductions. 
In  the  rustle,  bustle,  and  tussle  of  Fleet 
151 


Christina  IRo&setti 


Street,  I  have  held  up  my  book  to  a  party 
of  Americans  on  the  opposite  sidewalk, 
as  a  ship  runs  up  her  colors,  and  they 
seeing  the  sign,  in  turn  held  up  theirs  in 
merry  greeting  ;  and  we  passed  on  our 
way  without  a  word,  ships  that  pass  in 
the  afternoon  and  greet  each  other  in 
passing.  Now  I  have  no  desire  to  rival 
the  flamboyant  Baedeker,  nor  to  eclipse 
my  good  friend  Mr.  Laurence  Hutton. 
But  as  I  cannot  find  that  either  mentions 
the  name  "  Rossetti"  I  am  going  to  set 
down  (not  in  malice)  the  places  in  Lon- 
don that  are  closely  connected  with  the 
Rossetti  family,  nothing  extenuating. 

London  is  the  finest  city  in  the  world 
for  the  tourist  who  desires  liberty  as 
wide  as  the  wind,  and  who  wishes  to  live 
cheaply  and  live  well.  In  New  York,  if 
you  want  lodgings  at  a  moderate  price, 
you  must  throttle  your  pride  and  forsake 
respectability  ;  but  they  do  things  dif- 
ferently in  Lunnon,  you  know.  From 
Gray's  Inn  Road  to  Portland  Place,  and 
from  Oxford  Street  to  Euston  Road,  there 
152 


tfbristina  IRcsscttt 


is  just  about  a  square  mile — a  section,  as 
they  say  out  West — of  lodging-houses. 
Once  this  part  of  London  was  given  up 
to  the  homes  of  the  great  and  purse- 
proud  and  all  that.  It  is  respectable  yet, 
and  if  you  are  going  to  be  in  London  a 
week  you  can  get  a  good  room  in  one 
of  these  old-time  mansions,  and  pay  no 
more  for  it  than  you  would  pay  for  a 
room  in  an  American  hotel  for  one  day. 
And  as  for  meals,  your  landlady  will  get 
you  anything  you  want  and  serve  it  for 
you  in  the  daintiest  style,  and  you  will 
also  find  that  a  shilling  and  a  little  cour- 
tesy will  go  a  very  long  way  in  securing 
creature  comforts.  American  women  in 
London  can  live  in  this  way  just  as  well 
as  men.  If  you  are  a  school  ma'am  from 
Peoria,  taking  your  vacation,  follow  my 
advice  and  make  your  home  in  the  "  Bed- 
ford District,"  within  easy  reach  of  Stop- 
ford  Brooke's  chapel,  and  your  London 
visit  will  stand  out  forever  as  a  bright 
oasis  in  memory's  desert  waste.  All  of 
which  I  put  in  here  because  Larry  Hut- 
153 


Cbrtstina  IRossettf 


ton  forgot  to  mention  it  and  Mein  Herr 
Baedeker  did  n't  think  it  worth  while. 

When  in  London  I  usually  get  a  room 
near  the  British  Museum  for  ten  shil- 
lings a  week  ;  and  when  I  want  to  go 
anywhere  I  walk  up  to  the  Gower  Street 
Station,  past  the  house  where  the  mother 
of  Charles  Dickens  had  her  Young  La- 
dies' Establishment,  and  buying  a  ticket 
at  the  "Booking-Office"  am  duly  set 
down  near  the  desired  objective  point. 
You  can  go  anywhere  by  the  "  Metro- 
politan," or  if  you  prefer  to  take  Mr. 
Gladstone's  advice,  you  climb  to  the  top 
of  an  Oxford  Street  bus,  and  if  you  sit 
next  the  driver  you  have  a  directory, 
guide,  and  familiar  friend  all  at  your  ser- 
vice. 

Charlotte  Street  is  a  narrow  little  pas- 
sage running  just  two  squares,  parallel 
with  Portland  Place.  The  houses  are 
built  in  blocks  of  five  (or  more),  of  the 
plainest  of  plain  bricks.  The  location 
is  not  far  from  the  Gower  Street  Station 
of  the  Metropolitan  Railway,  and  only  a 
154 


Cbristfna  IRossettl 


few  minutes'  walk  from  the  British  Mu- 
seum. Number  38  is  the  last  but  one  on 
the  east  side  of  the  street.  When  I  first 
saw  it  there  was  a  sign  in  the  window, 
"Apartments,"  and  back  of  this  fresh 
cambric  curtains.  Then  the  window  had 
been  cleaned,  too,  for  a  siugle  day  of  neg- 
lect in  London  tells  its  tale,  as  does 
the  record  of  crime  on  a  rogue's  face.  I 
paused  and  looked  the  place  over  with 
interest.  I  noted  that  the  brass  plate 
with  the  "  No.  38"  on  it  had  been  pol- 
ished until  it  had  been  nearly  polished 
out  of  sight,  like  a  machine-made  sonnet 
too  much  gone  over.  The  steps  had 
been  freshly  sanded,  and  a  little  lemon- 
tree  nodding  in  one  of  the  windows  made 
the  rusty  old  house  look  quite  inviting. 
A  stout  little  woman,  with  a  big  market- 
basket,  bumped  into  me  and  apologized. 
It  was  I  who  should  have  apologized,  for 
I  had  stepped  backwards  to  get  a  better 
look  at  the  upstairs  windows.  The  stout 
little  woman  set  down  her  basket  on  the 
steps,  took  a  bunch  of  keys  from  a  pocket 
155 


Cbrtstina  IRossetti 


under  her  big  white  starched  apron,  se- 
lected one,  turned  to  me,  smiled,  and 
asked:  "  Mebbe,  Sir,  you  wasn't  look- 
ing for  apartments,  I  dunno?"  Then 
she  explained  that  the  house  was  hers, 
and  that  if  I  would  step  in  she  would 
show  me  the  rooms.  There  were  two  of 
'em  she  could  spare.  The  first  floor  front 
was  already  let,  and  so  was  the  front  par- 
lor— to  a  young  barrister.  Her  husband 
was  a  ticket  taker  at  Eustou  Station,  and 
did  n't  get  much  since  last  cut-down. 
Would  I  care  to  pay  as  much  as  ten  shil- 
lings, and  would  I  want  breakfast?  It 
would  only  be  ninepence,  and  I  could 
have  either  a  chop  or  ham  and  eggs. 
She  looked  after  her  boarders  herself, 
just  as  if  they  were  her  own  folks,  and 
only  took  respectable  single  gentlemen 
who  came  well  recommended.  She  knew 
I  would  like  the  room,  and  if  ten  shil- 
lings was  too  much  I  could  have  the 
back  room  for  seven  and  six. 

I  thought  the  back  room  would  answer ; 
but  explained  that  I  was  an  American 
156 


Cbdetina  "Kcssettf 


and  was  going  to  remain  in  London  only 
a  short  time.  Of  course  the  lady  knew  I 
was  an  American,  she  knew  it  from  my 
hat  and  from  my  foreign  accent  and— 
from  the  red  book  I  had  in  my  hand. 
And  did  I  know  the  Mclntyres  that 
lived  in  Michigan  ? 

I  evaded  the  question  by  asking  if  she 
knew  the  Rossettis  who  once  lived  in 
this  house.  "  Oh,  yes,  I  know  Mr.  Will- 
iam and  Miss  Christina.  They  came 
here  together  a  year  ago,  and  told  me 
they  were  born  here  and  that  their  brother 
Dante  and  their  sister  too  were  born  here. 
I  think  they  were  all  writin'  folks,  were 
n't  they  ?  Miss  Rossetti  anyway  writes 
poetry,  I  know  that.  One  of  my  boarders 
gave  me  one  of  her  books  for  Christmas. 
I  '11  show  it  to  you.  You  don't  think 
seven  and  six  is  too  much  for  a  room  like 
that,  do  you?  " 

I  inwardly  noted  that  the  ceilings  were 

much  lower  than  those  of  my  room  in 

Russell  .Square  and  that  the  furniture  was 

old  and  worn  and  that  the  room  looked 

157 


Christina  "IRossetti 


out  on  an  army  of  sooty  chimney  pots, 
but  I  explained  that  seven  and  six  seemed 
a  very  reasonable  price,  and  that  nine 
pence  for  breakfast  with  ham  and  eggs 
was  cheap  enough,  provided  the  eggs 
were  strictly  fresh. 

So  I  paid  one  week's  rent  in  advance  on 
the  spot,  and  going  back  to  Russell  Square 
told  my  landlady  that  I  had  found  friends 
in  another  part  of  the  city  and  would  not 
return  for  two  days.  My  sojourn  at  No. 
38  Charlotte  Street  developed  nothing 
further  than  the  meagre  satisfaction  of 
sleeping  for  two  nights  in  the  room  in 
which  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  was  born, 
and  making  the  acquaintance  of  the 
worthy  ticket  taker  who  knew  all  four 
of  the  Rossettis,  as  they  had  often  passed 
through  his  gate. 

Professor  Rossetti  lived  for  twelve 
3'ears  at  No.  38  Charlotte  Street ;  he  then 
moved  to  No.  50  in  the  next  block,  which 
is  a  somewhat  larger  house.  It  was  here 
that  Mazzini  used  to  come.  The  house 
has  been  made  over  somewhat  and  is  now 
158 


Cbristina  IRossettf 


used  as  an  office  by  the  Registrar  of  Vital 
Statistics.  This  is  the  place  where  Dante 
Gabriel  and  a  young  man  named  Holtnan 
Hunt  had  a  studio,  and  where  another 
young  artist  by  the  name  of  William 
Morris  came  to  visit  them  ;  and  here  was 
born  The  Germ,  that  queer  little  chip- 
munk magazine  in  which  first  appeared 
Hand  and  Soul  and  The  Blessed  Damo- 
zcl,  written  by  Dante  Gabriel  when  eigh- 
teen, the  same  age  at  which  Bryant  wrote 
Thanatopsis.  William  Bell  Scott  used  to 
come  here  too.  Scott  was  a  great  man  in 
his  day.  He  had  no  hair  on  his  head  or 
face,  not  even  eyebrows.  Every  follicle 
had  grown  aweary  and  quit.  But  Mr. 
Scott  was  quite  vain  of  the  shape  of  his 
head,  for  well  he  might  be,  since  several 
choice  sonnets  had  been  combed  out  of 
it.  Sometimes  when  the  wine  went  round 
and  things  grew  merry,  then  sentimental, 
then  confidential,  Scott  would  snatch  off 
his  wig  to  display  to  the  company  his 
fine  phrenological  development,  and  tell 
a  story  about  Nelson  who  too  used  to 
159 


Christina  IRcssetti 


wear  a  wig  just  like  his  and  after  every 
battle  would  take  it  off  and  hand  it  over 
to  his  valet  to  have  the  bullets  combed 
out  of  it. 

The  elder  Rossetti  died  in  this  house 
and  was  carried  to  Christ  Church  in  Wo- 
burn  Square,  and  thence  to  Highgate. 
His  excellent  wife  waited  to  see  the  genius 
of  her  children  blossom  and  acknowl- 
edged. She  followed  thirty  years  later 
and  was  buried  in  the  same  grave  with 
her  husband,  where  later  Christina  was 
to  join  them. 

Frances  Mary  Polidori  was  born  at  42 
Broad  Street,  Golden  Square,  the  same 
street  in  which  William  Blake  was  born. 
I  found  the  street  and  found  Golden 
Square  but  could  not  locate  the  house. 
The  policeman  on  the  beat  declared  that 
no  one  by  the  name  of  Rossetti  or  Blake 
was  in  business  thereabouts ;  and  further 
he  never  heard  of  Polly  Dory. 

William  Michael  Rossetti's  home  is  one 
iu  a  row  of  houses  called  St.  Edmund's 
Terrace.  It  is  near  the  St.  John's  Road 
160 


Gbrtetma  IRossettf 

Station,  just  a  step  from  Regent's  Park, 
and  faces  the  Middlesex  Water  Works. 
It  is  a  fine  old  house,  built  of  stone  I 
should  judge,  stuccoed  on  the  outside. 
With  a  well-known  critic  I  called  there, 
and  found  the  master  wearing  a  long 
dressing-gown  that  came  to  his  heels,  a 
pair  of  new  carpet  slippers  and  a  black 
plush  cap,  all  so  dusty  that  we  guessed  the 
owner  had  been  sifting  ashes  in  the  cellar. 
He  was  most  courteous  and  polite.  He 
worships  at  the  shrine  of  Whitman, 
Kmerson,  and  Thoreau,  and  regards  Amer- 
ica as  the  spot  from  whence  must  come 
the  world's  intellectual  hope.  "Great 
thoughts,  like  beautiful  flowers,  are  pro- 
duced by  transplantation  and  the  com- 
mingling of  many  elements."  These  are 
his  words,  and  the  fact  that  the  Rossetti 
genius  is  the  result  of  transplanting  need 
not  weigh  in  the  scale  as  'gainst  the 
truth  of  the  remark.  Shortly  after  this 
call,  at  an  Art  Exhibition,  I  again  met 
William  Michael  Rossetti.  I  talked  with 
him  some  moments — long  enough  to  dis- 
161 


Gbristina  tRoseettf 


cover  that  be  was  not  aware  we  had  ever 
met.  This  caused  me  to  be  rather  less 
in  love  with  the  Rossetti  genius  than  I 
was  before. 

The  wife  of  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti 
died,  aged  twenty-nine,  at  14  Chatham 
Place,  near  Blackfriars  Bridge.  The  re- 
gion thereabouts  has  been  changed  by  the 
march  of  commerce,  and  if  the  original 
house  where  the  artist  lived  yet  stands  I 
could  not  find  it.  It  was  here  that  the 
Pre-Raphaelites  made  history —  Madox 
Brown,  Burne-Jones,  Ruskin,  William 
Morris,  and  the  MacDonalds.  Burne- 
Jones  married  one  of  the  MacDonald 
daughters ;  Mr.  Poynter,  now  Director 
of  the  National  Gallery,  another ;  Mr. 
Kipling  still  another  —  with  Rudyard 
Kipling  as  a  result,  followed  in  due 
course  by  Mulvaney,  Ortheris,  and  L,ea- 
royd  who  are  quite  as  immortal  as  the 
rest. 

At  this  time  Professor  Rossetti  was 
dead,  and  William  Michael,  Marie,  Chris- 
tina, and  the  widowed  mother  were  living 
162 


Cbristina  IRossetti 

at  166  Albany  Street,  fighting  off  various 
hungry  wolves  that  crouched  around  the 
door.  Albany  Street  is  rather  shabby 
now,  and  was  then,  I  suppose.  At  112 
Albany  Street  lives  one  Dixon  who 
takes  marvellous  photographs  of  animals 
in  the  Zoological  Gardens,  with  a  pocket 
camera,  and  then  enlarges  the  pictures  a 
hundred  times.  These  pictures  go  the 
round  world  over  and  command  big 
prices.  Mr.  Dixon  was  taking  for  me,  at 
the  National  Gallery,  the  negatives  from 
which  I  made  photogravures  for  my 
Ruskin-Turner  book.  Mr.  Dixon  knows 
more  in  an  artistic  and  literary  way  than 
any  man  in  London  (I  believe),  but  he  is 
a  modest  gentleman  and  only  emits  his 
facts  under  cross-examination  or  under 
the  spell  of  inspiration.  Together  we 
visited  the  house  166  Albany  Street. 

It  was  vacant  at  the  time  and  we  rum- 
maged through  every  room,  with  the 
result  that  we  concluded  it  makes  very 
little  difference  where  genius  is  housed. 
On  one  of  the  windows  of  a  little  bed- 
163 


Christina  IRogsettf 

room  we  found  the  word  "Christina" 
cut  with  a  diamond.  When  and  by 
whom  it  was  done  I  do  not  know. 
Surely  the  Rossettis  had  no  diamonds 
when  they  lived  here.  But  Mr.  Dixon 
had  a  diamond  and  with  his  ring  he  cut 
beneath  the  word  just  noted  the  name, 
"Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti."  I  have  re- 
cently heard  that  the  signature  has  been 
identified  as  authentic  by  a  man  who 
was  familiar  with  the  Rossettis'  hand- 
writing. 

When  tbe  firm  of  Morris  &  Co., 
Dealers  in  Art  Fabrics,  was  gotten  under 
weigh,  and  Dante  Gabriel  had  ceased  to 
argue  details  with  that  pre-eminently 
sane  man,  William  Morris,  his  finances 
began  to  prosper.  Morris  directed  and 
utilized  the  energies  of  his  partners.  He 
marshalled  their  virtues  into  a  solid 
phalanx  and  marched  them  on  to  victory. 
No  doubt  but  that  genius  usually  requires 
a  keeper.  But  Morris  was  a  genius  him- 
self and  a  giant  in  more  ways  than  one, 
for  he  ruled  his  own  spirit,  thus  proving 
164 


Cbrtstina  "Rossettt 


himself  greater  than  one  who  taketh  a 
city. 

In  1862,  we  find  Dante  Gabriel  throw- 
ing out  the  fact  that  his  income  was 
equal  to  about  ten  thousand  dollars  a 
year.  He  took  the  beautiful  house  No. 
18  Cheyne  Walk,  Chelsea,  near  the  little 
street  where  lived  a  Scotchman  by  the 
name  of  Thomas  Carlyle,  and  iu  the 
same  block  where  afterwards  lived  George 
Eliot,  and  where  she  died.  He  wanted 
his  brother  and  sisters  and  his  mother  to 
share  his  prosperity,  and  so  he  planned 
that  they  should  all  come  and  live  with 
him ;  and  besides,  Mr.  Swinburne  and 
Mr.  George  Meredith  were  to  come  too. 
It  was  to  be  one  big  happy  family.  But 
the  good  old  mother  knew  the  human 
heart  better  than  her  brilliant  sou.  She 
has  left  on  record  these  words:  "Yes, 
my  children  all  have  talent,  great  talent ; 
I  only  wish  they  had  a  little  common 
sense ! " 

So  for  the  present  she  remained  with 
William,  her  daughters,  and  her  two  aged 
165 


Cbristina  IRossettf 


unmarried  sisters  in  the  plain  old  house 
in  Albany  Street.  But  Dante  Gabriel 
moved  to  Cheyne  Walk,  and  began  that 
craze  for  collecting  blue  china  that  has 
swept  like  a  blight  over  the  civilized 
world.  His  collection  was  sold  for  $3,- 
500.00  some  years  after — to  pay  his  debts 
— less  than  one  half  of  what  it  cost  him. 
Yet  when  he  had  money  he  generously 
divided  it  with  the  folks  up  in  Albany 
Street.  But  by  and  by  William,  too,  got 
to  making  money  and  the  quarters  at 
No.  166  were  abandoned  for  something 
better. 

William  was  married  and  had  taken  a 
house  of  his  own,  I  don't  know  where. 
The  rest  of  the  household  consisted  of 
the  widow,  Mrs.  Rossetti,  Miss  Charlotte 
Lydia  Polidori,  Miss  Eliza  Harriet  Poli- 
dori,  Maria,  and  Christina — and  seven 
cats.  And  so  we  find  this  family  of  five 
women  living  in  peace  and  comfort  with 
their  books  and  pictures  and  cats  at  No. 
3oTorringtou  Square  in  a  drowsy,  faded, 
ebb-tide  mansion.  Maria  was  never 
166 


Cbrtetfna  IRossettf 


strong  ;  she  fell  into  a  decline  and  passed 
away.  The  management  of  the  house- 
hold then  devolved  on  Christina.  Her 
burdens  must  have  been  heavy  in  those 
days,  or  did  she  make  them  light  by 
cheerful  doing  ?  She  gave  up  society, 
refused  the  thought  of  marriage  and 
joined  that  unorganized  sisterhood  of 
mercy — the  women  who  toil  that  others 
may  live.  But  she  sang  at  her  work,  as 
the  womanly  woman  ever  does.  For  al- 
though a  woman  may  hold  no  babe  in  her 
arms,  the  lullaby  leaps  to  her  tongue,  and 
at  eventide  she  sings  songs  to  the  chil- 
dren of  her  brain — sweet  idealization  of 
the  principle  of  mother-love. 

Christina  Rossetti  comes  to  us  as  one 
of  those  splendid  stars  that  are  so  far 
away  they  are  seen  only  at  rare  intervals. 
She  never  posed  as  a  "  literary  person  " 
— reading  her  productions  at  four- 
o'clocks  and  winning  high  praise  from 
the  unbonneted,  and  the  discerning  so- 
ciety editor.  She  never  even  sought  a 
publisher.  Her  first  volume  of  verses 
i67 


Cbrfstina  IRosscttf 


was  issued  by  her  grandfather  Polidori 
unknown  to  her — printed  by  his  own 
labor  when  she  was  seventeen  and  pre- 
sented to  her.  What  a  surprise  it  must 
have  been  to  this  gentle  girl  to  have  one 
of  her  own  books  placed  in  her  hands  ! 
There  seems  to  have  been  an  almost  holy 
love  in  this  proud  man's  heart  for  his 
granddaughter.  His  love  was  blind,  or 
near-sighted  at  least,  as  love  is  apt  to  be 
(and  I  am  glad !)  for  some  of  the  poems 
in  this  little  volume  are  sorry  stuff. 
Later,  her  brothers  issued  her  work  and 
found  market  for  it ;  and  once  we  find 
Dante  Gabriel  almost  quarrelling  with 
that  worthy  Manxman,  Hall  Caine,  be- 
cause the  Manxman  was  compiling  a 
volume  of  the  best  English  sonnets  and 
threatening  to  leave  Christina  Rossetti 
out. 

Christina  had  the  faculty  of  seizing 
beautiful  moments,  exalted  feelings,  sub- 
lime emotions  and  working  them  up  into 
limpid  song  that  comes  echoing  to  us  as 
from  across  soft  seas.  In  all  of  her  lines 
if>8 


Cbrfstina  IRossettf 

there  is  a  half  sobbing  undertone — the 
sweet  minor  chord  that  is  ever  present  in 
the  songs  of  the  Choir  Invisible,  whose 
music  is  the  gladness  as  well  as  the  sad- 
ness of  the  world. 

I  have  a  dear  friend  who  is  an  amateur 
photographic  artist,  which  be  it  known 
is  quite  a  different  thing  from  a  kodak 
fiend.  The  latter  is  continually  snap- 
ping a  machine  at  incongruous  things  ; 
he  delights  in  catching  people  in  absurd 
postures  ;  he  pictures  the  foolish,  the  ir- 
relevant, the  transient  and  the  needless. 
But  what  does  my  friend  picture  ?  I  '11 
tell  you.  He  catches  pictures  only  of 
beautiful  objects :  swaying  stalks  of 
goldenrod,  flights  of  thistle-down,  lichen 
on  old  stone  walls,  barks  of  trees,  oak 
leaves,  bunches  of  acorns,  single  sprays 
of  apple-blossoms.  Last  spring  he  found 
two  robins  building  a  nest  in  a  cherry 
tree :  he  placed  his  camera  near  them, 
and  attaching  a  fine  wire  to  spring 
the  shutter,  took  a  picture  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Robin-red-breast  laying  down  the 
169 


Cbristina  IRosgettt 


first  coarse  straws  for  their  nest.  Then 
he  took  a  picture  every  day  for  thirty 
days  of  that  nest ;  from  the  time  four 
speckled  eggs  are  shown  until  four  wide 
open  mouths  are  held  up  hungrily  for 
dainty  grubs.  This  series  of  photographs 
forms  an  Epic  of  Creation.  So  if  you  ask 
me  to  solve  the  question  of  whether  pho- 
tography is  art  I  '11  answer,  it  all  depends 
upon  what  you  picture,  and  how  you 
present  it. 

Christina  Rossetti  focused  her  thought 
on  the  beautiful  object  and  at  the  best 
angle,  so  the  picture  she  brings  us  is 
nobly  ordered  and  richly  suggestive. 

And  so  the  days  passed  in  study,  writ- 
ing, housework,  and  caring  for  old  ladies 
three.  Dante  Gabriel,  talented,  lovable, 
erratic,  had  gotten  into  bad  ways,  as  a 
man  will  who  turns  night  into  day  and 
tries  to  get  the  start  of  God  Almighty, 
thinking  he  has  found  a  substitute  for 
exercise  and  oxygen.  Finally  he  was 
taken  to  Birchington,  on  the  Isle  of 
Thanet  (where  Octave  found  her  name). 
170 


Cbristtna  "Kosscttt 


He  was  mentally  ill,  to  a  point  where  he 
had  through  his  delusions  driven  away  all 
his  old-time  friends.  Christina,  aged  fifty- 
one,  and  the  mother,  aged  eighty-two, 
went  to  take  care  of  him,  and  they  did 
for  him  with  all  the  loving  tenderness 
what  they  might  have  done  for  a  sick 
baby  ;  but  with  this  difference — they  had 
to  fight  his  strength.  Yet  still  there 
were  times  when  his  mind  was  sweet  and 
gentle  as  in  the  days  of  old  ;  and  toward 
the  last  these  periods  of  restful  peace  in- 
creased, and  there  were  hours  when  the 
brother,  sister,  and  aged  mother  held 
sweet  converse,  almost  as  when  children 
they  were  taught  at  this  mother's  knee. 
Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  died  April  9,  1892. 
His  grave  is  in  the  old  country  church- 
yard at  Birchington. 

Two  years  afterward  the  mother  passed 
out;  in  1890,  Eliza  Polidori  died,  aged 
eighty-seven ;  and,  in  1893,  her  sister 
Charlotte  joined  her,  aged  eighty-four. 
In  Christ's  Church,  Woburn  Square,  you 
can  see  memorial  tablets  to  these  fine 
171 


Cbristina  IRossetti 


souls,  and  if  you  get  acquainted  with  the 
gentle  old  rector  he  will  show  you  a  pen- 
dant star  and  crescent,  set  with  diamonds, 
given  by  the  Sultan  during  the  Crimean 
war,  "To  Miss  Charlotte  L,ydia  Polidori 
for  distinguished  services  as  Nurse." 
And  he  will  also  show  you  a  silver  coin- 
muuion  set  marked  with  the  names  of 
these  three  sisters  followed  by  that  of 
"Christina  Georgiana  Rossetti." 

And  so  they  all  went  to  their  soul's 
rest  and  left  Christina  alone  in  the  big 
house  with  its  echoing  halls — too  big  by 
half  for  its  lonely,  simple-hearted  mis- 
tress and  her  pets.  She  felt  that  her 
work  was  done,  and  feeling  so,  the  end 
soon  came.  She  died  December  29,  1894 
— passing  from  a  world  that  she  had  never 
much  loved,  where  she  had  lived  a  life 
of  sacrifice,  suffering  many  partings,  en- 
during many  pains.  Glad  to  go,  rejoic- 
ing that  the  end  was  nigh,  and  soothed 
by  the  thought  that  beyond  lay  a  Future, 
she  fell  asleep. 

172 


ROSA  BONHEUR. 


173 


The  boldness  of  her  conceptions  is  sublime. 
As  a  creative  Artist  I  place  her  first  among 
women,  living  or  dead.  And  if  you  ask  me  why 
she  thus  towers  above  her  fellows,  by  the  majesty 
of  her  work  silencing  every  detractor,  I  will  say 
it  is  because  she  listens  to  God,  and  not  to  man. 
She  is  true  to  self. 

Victor  Hugo. 


174 


ROSA  BONHEUR. 


WHEN  I  arrive  in  Paris  I  always 
go  first  to  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  head- 
quarters in  the  Rue  de  Treville 
— that  fine  building  erected  and  presented 
to  the  Association  by  Banker  Stokes  of 
New  York.  There  's  a  good  table  d'hdte 
dinner  there  every  day  for  a  franc  ;  then 
there  are  bath-rooms  and  writing- rooms 
and  reading-rooms,  and  all  are  yours  if  you 
are  a  stranger.  The  polite  secretary  does 
not  look  like  a  Christian  :  he  has  a  very 
tight  hair-cut,  a  Van  Dyke  beard  and  lists 
of  lodgings  that  can  be  had  for  twenty,  fif- 
teen, or  ten  francs  a  week.  Or  should  you 
be  an  American  Millionaire  and  be  willing 
175 


TRosa  JBonbeur 


to  pay  thirty  francs  a  week  the  secretary 
knows  a  nice  Protestant  lady  who  will 
rent  you  her  front  parlor  on  the  first  floor 
and  serve  you  coffee  each  morning  with- 
out extra  charge. 

Not  being  a  millionaire  I  decided,  the 
last  time  I  was  there,  on  a  room  at  fifteen 
francs  a  week  on  the  fourth  floor.  A 
bright  young  fellow  was  called  up,  duly 
introduced,  and  we  started  out  to  inspect 
the  quarters. 

The  house  we  wanted  was  in  a  little 
side  street  that  leads  off  the  Boulevard 
Montmartre.  It  was  a  very  narrow  and 
plain  little  street  and  I  was  a  bit  disap- 
pointed. Yet  it  was  not  a  shabby  street 
for  there  are  none  such  in  Paris  ;  all  was 
neat  and  clean,  and  as  I  caught  sight  of  a 
bird  cage  hanging  in  one  of  the  windows 
and  a  basket  of  ferns  in  another  I  was 
reassured  and  rang  the  bell. 

The  landlady  wore  a  white  cap,  a  win- 
ning smile,  and  a  big  white  apron.  A 
bunch  of  keys  dangling  from  her  belt 
gave  the  necessary  look  of  authority. 
176 


IRosa  JBonbeur 


She  was  delighted  to  see  me — everybody 
is  glad  to  see  you  in  Paris — and  she  would 
feel  especially  honored  if  I  would  consent 
to  remain  under  her  roof.  She  only 
rented  her  rooms  to  those  who  were  sent 
to  her  by  her  friends,  and  among  her  few 
dear  friends  none  were  so  dear  as  Mon- 
sieur ze  Secretaire  of  ze  Young  Men 
Christians. 

And  so  I  was  shown  the  room — away 
up  and  up  and  up  a  dark  winding  stairway 
of  stone  steps  with  an  iron  balustrade. 
It  was  a  room  about  the  size  of  a  large 
Jordan-Marsh  dry  goods  box.  The  only 
thing  that  tempted  me  to  stay  was  the 
fact  that  the  one  window  was  made  up 
of  little  diamond  panes  set  in  leaden  sash, 
and  that  this  window  looked  out  on  a 
little  courtway  where  a  dozen  palms  and 
as  many  ferns  grew  lush  and  green  in 
green  tubs  and  where  in  the  centre  a 
fountain  spurted.  So  a  bargain  was 
struck  and  the  landlady  went  down  stairs 
to  find  her  husband  to  send  him  to  the 
Gare  St.  Lazare  after  my  luggage. 
177 


"Rosa  asonbeur 


What  a  relief  it  is  to  get  settled  in  your 
own  room  !  It  is  home  and  this  is  your 
castle.  You  can  do  as  you  please  here ; 
can  I  not  take  miue  ease  in  mine  inn  ? 

I  took  off  my  coat  and  hung  it  on  the 
corner  of  the  high  bed  post  of  the  narrow 
little  bed  and  hung  my  collar  and  cuffs 
on  the  floor ;  and  then  leaned  out  of  the 
window  indulging  in  a  drowsy  dream  of 
sweet  content.  'T  was  a  long  dusty  ride 
from  Dieppe,  but  who  cares — I  was  now 
settled,  with  rent  paid  for  a  week  ! 

All  around  the  courtway  were  flower 
boxes  in  the  windows  ;  down  below,  the 
fountain  cheerfully  bubbled  and  gurgled, 
and  from  clear  off  in  the  unseen  rumbled 
the  traffic  of  the  great  city.  And  coming 
from  somewhere,  as  I  sat  there,  was  the 
shrill  warble  of  a  canary.  I  looked  down 
and  around  but  could  not  see  the  feathered 
songster,  as  the  novelists  always  call  a 
bird.  Then  I  followed  the  advice  of  the 
Epworth  I,eague  and  looked  up,  not 
down,  out,  not  in,  and  there  directly  over 
my  head  hung  the  cage  all  tied  up  in 
i73 


IRosa  asonbeur 

chiffon  (I  think  it  was  chiffon).  I  was 
surprised,  for  I  felt  sure  it  could  not  be 
possible  there  was  a  room  higher  than 
mine — when  I  had  come  up  nine  stair- 
ways !  Then  I  was  more  surprised,  for 
just  as  I  looked  up  a  woman  looked  down 
and  our  eyes  met.  We  both  smiled  a 
foolish  smile  of  surprise  ;  she  dodged  in 
her  head  and  I  gazed  at  the  houses  oppo- 
site with  an  interest  quite  unnecessary. 

She  was  not  a  very  young  woman,  nor 
very  pretty — in  fact  she  was  rather  plain 
but  when  she  leaned  out  to  feed  her  pet 
and  found  a  man  looking  up  at  her  she 
proved  her  divine  femininity  beyond 
cavil.  Was  there  ever  a  more  womanly 
action?  And  I  said  to  myself,  "She  is 
not  handsome  but  God  bless  her,  she  is 
human  !  " 

Details  are  tiresome — so  suffice  it  to  say 
that  next  day  the  bird-cage  was  lowered 
that  I  might  divide  my  apple  with  Dickie 
(for  Dickie  was  very  fond  of  apple).  On 
the  second  day  when  the  cage  was  lowered 
I  not  only  fed  Dickie  but  wrote  a  mes- 
179 


TRosa  36onbeur 


sage  on  the  cuttle-fish.     On  the  third  day 
there  was  a  note  twisted  in  the  wires  of 
the  cage  inviting  me  up  to  tea. 
And  I  went. 


1 80 


II. 


FOUR  girls  lived  up  there  in  one  attic 
room.  Two  of  these  girls  were 
Americans,  one  English  and  one 
French.  One  of  the  American  girls  was 
round  and  pink  and  twenty  ;  the  other  was 
older.  It  was  the  older  one  that  owned 
the  bird,  and  invited  me  up  to  tea.  She 
met  me  at  the  door  and  we  shook  hands 
like  old-time  friends.  I  was  introduced 
to  the  trinity  in  a  dignified  manner  and 
we  were  soon  chatting  in  a  way  that  made 
Dickie  envious  and  he  sang  so  loudly 
that  one  of  the  girls  covered  the  cage 
with  a  black  apron. 

With  four  girls  I  felt  perfectly  safe,  and 
as  for  the  girls  there  was  not  a  shadow 
of  a  doubt  but  that  they  were  safe,  for  I 
am  a  married  man.  I  knew  they  must 
be  nice  girls  for  they  had  birds  and  flower 
181 


•Rosa  JBonbeur 


boxes.  I  knew  they  had  flower  boxes  for 
twice  it  so  happened  that  they  sprinkled 
the  flowers  while  I  was  leaning  out  of  the 
window  wrapped  in  reverie. 

This  attic  was  the  most  curious  room  I 
ever  saw.  It  was  large — running  clear 
across  the  house.  It  had  four  gable  win- 
dows and  the  ceiling  sloped  down  on  the 
sides  so  there  was  danger  of  bumping 
your  head  if  you  played  pussy-wants- 
a-corner.  Each  girl  had  a  window  that 
she  called  her  own,  and  the  chintz  cur- 
tains, made  of  chiffon  (I  think  it  was 
chiffon)  were  tied  back  with  different 
colored  ribbons.  This  big  room  was  di- 
vided in  the  centre  by  a  curtain  made  of 
gunny-sack  stuff  and  this  curtain  was 
covered  with  pictures  such  as  were  never 
seen  on  laud  or  sea.  The  walls  were 
papered  with  brown  wrapping  paper, 
tacked  up  with  brass-headed  nails,  and 
this  paper  was  covered  with  pictures 
such  as  were  never  seen  on  sea  or  land. 

The  girls  were  all  art  students  and 
when  they  had  nothing  else  to  do  they 
182 


•Rosa  JBonbcur 


worked  on  the  walls,  I  imagined,  just  as 
the  Israelites  did  in  Jerusalem  years  ago. 
One  half  of  the  attic  was  studio  and  this 
was  where  the  table  was  set.  The  other 
half  of  the  attic  had  curious  chairs  and 
divans  and  four  little  iron  beds  enamelled 
in  white  and  gold,  and  each  bed  was  so 
smoothly  made  up  that  I  asked  what  they  \ 
were  for.  White  Pigeon  said  they  were 
bric-a-brac— that  the  Attic  Philosophers 
rolled  themselves  up  in  the  rugs  on  the 
floor  when  they  wished  to  sleep,  but  I 
have  thought  since  that  White  Pigeon 
was  chaffing  me. 

White  Pigeon  was  the  one  I  saw  that 
first  afternoon  when  I  looked  up,  not 
down,  out,,  not  in.  She  was  from  White 
Pigeon,  Michigan,  and  from  the  very  mo- 
ment I  told  her  I  had  a  cousin  living  at 
Coldwater  who  was  a  conductor  on  the 
Lake  Shore,  we  were  as  brother  and  sister. 
White  Pigeon  was  thirty  or  thirty-five 
mebbe  ;  she  had  some  grey  hairs  mixed 
in  with  the  brown  and  at  times  there  was 
a  tinge  of  melancholy  in  her  laugh  and  a 
183 


IRcsa  JSonbeur 


sort  of  half  minor  key  in  her  voice.  I 
think  she  had  had  a  Past  but  I  don't  know 
for  sure. 

Women  under  thirty  seldom  know 
much,  unless  Fate  has  been  kind  and 
cuffed  them  thoroughly,  so  the  little 
peach-blow  Americaine  did  not  interest 
me.  The  peach-blow  was  all  gone  from 
White  Pigeon's  cheek,  but  she  was  fairly 
wise  and  reasonably  good — I  'm  certain 
of  that.  She  called  herself  a  student  and 
spoke  of  her  pictures  as  "  studies,"  but 
she  had  lived  in  Paris  ten  years.  Peach- 
blow  was  her  pupil — sent  over  from  Brad- 
ford, Pennsylvania,  where  her  father  was 
a  "producer."  White  Pigeon  told  me 
this  after  I  had  drunk  five  cups  of  tea 
and  the  Anglaise  and  Soubrette  were 
doing  the  dishes.  Peachblow  the  while 
was  petulantly  taking  the  color  out  of  a 
canvas  that  was  a  false  alarm. 

White  Pigeon  had  copied  a  Correggio 
in  the  Louvre  nine  years  before,  and 
sold  the  canvas  to  a  rich  wagon-maker 

184 


IRcsa  [Konbeur 

from  South  Bend.  Then  orders  came 
from  South  Bend  for  six  more  copies  of 
Iyouvre  master-pieces.  It  took  a  year  to 
complete  the  order  and  brought  White 
Pigeon  a  thousand  dollars.  She  kept  on 
copying  and  occasionally  received  orders 
from  America,  and  when  no  orders  came 
pot-boilers  were  duly  done  and  sent  to 
worthy  Hebrews  in  St.  L,ouis  who  hold 
annual  Art  Receptions  and  sell  at  auction 
paintings  painted  by  distinguished  artists 
with  unpronounceable  names,  who  send 
a  little  of  their  choice  work  to  St.  Louis, 
because  the  people  in  St.  Louis  appreci- 
ate really  choice  things. 

"And  the  mural  decorations — which 
one  of  you  did  those  ?  "  I  remarked,  as  a 
long  pause  came  stealing  in. 

"  Did  you  hear  what  Mr.  Littlejourneys 
asked?"  called  White  Pigeon  to  the 
others. 

"No,  what  was  it? " 

"He  wants  to  know  which  one  of  us 
decorated  the  walls !  " 

i«5 


IRosa  JBonbeur 


"  Mr.  Littlejourneys  meant  illumined 
the  walls,"  jerked  Peaehblow,  over  her 
shoulder. 

Then  Anglaise  gravely  brought  a  bat- 
tered box  of  crayou  and  told  me  I  must 
make  a  picture  somewhere  on  the  wall  or 
ceiling — all  the  pictures  were  made  by 
visitors — no  visitor  was  ever  exempt. 

I  took  the  crayons  and  made  a  picture 
such  as  was  never  seen  on  land  or  sea. 
Having  thus  placed  myself  on  record  I 
began  to  examine  the  other  decorations. 
There  were  heads  and  faces,  and  archi- 
tectural scraps,  trees  and  animals,  and 
bits  of  landscape  and  ships  that  pass 
in  the  night.  Most  of  the  work  was 
decidedly  sketchy,  but  some  of  the  faces 
were  very  good. 

Suddenly  my  eye  spied  the  form  of  a 
sleeping  dog,  a  great  shaggy  St.  Bernard 
with  head  outstretched  on  his  paws, 
sound  asleep.     I  stopped  and  whistled. 

The  girls  laughed. 

"  It  is  only  the  picture  of  a  dog,"  said 
Soubrette. 

186 


IRosa  JScnbeur 


"I  know,  but  you  should  pay  dog-tax 
on  such  a  picture — did  you  draw  it  ?  "  I 
asked  White  Pigeon. 

"Did  I!  If  I  could  draw  like  that 
would  I  copy  pictures  in  the  Louvre? " 

"  Well,  who  drew  it  ?  " 

"  Can't  you  guess  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  can  guess.  I  am  a 
Yankee — I  guess  Rosa  Bonheur." 

"  Well,  you  have  guessed  right." 

"  Stop  joking  and  tell  me  who  drew 
the  St.  Bernard." 

"  Madame  Rosalie,  or  Rosa  Bonheur, 
as  you  call  her." 

"  But  she  never  came  here  !  " 

"  Yes,  she  did — once.  Soubrette  is  her 
great  grandniece,  or  something." 

"Yes,  and  Madame  Bonheur  pays  my 
way  and  keeps  me  in  the  Ijcole  des 
Beaux  Arts.  I  'm  not  ashamed  for  Mon- 
sieur Littlejourneys  to  know  !  "  said 
Soubrette  with  a  pretty  pout;  "I'm 
from  Lyons,  and  my  mother  and  Ma- 
dame Rosalie  used  to  know  each  other 
years  ago." 

187 


IRosa  JSonbeur 


"Will  Madame  Rosalie,  as  you  call 
her,  ever  come  here  agaiu  ?  " 

"  Perhaps." 

"Then  I  '11  camp  right  here  till  she 
comes !  " 

"  You  might  stay  a  year  and  then  he 
disappointed." 

"  Then  can't  we  go  to  see  her  ?  " 

"  Never  :  she  does  not  see  visitors." 

"  We  might  go  visit  her  home."  mused 
Soubrette,  after  a  pause. 

"  Yes,  if  she  is  away,"  said  Auglaise. 

"She's  away  now,"  said  Soubrette, 
"  she  went  to  Rouen  yesterday." 

"  Well,  when  shall  we  go?  " 

"To-morrow." 


188 


III. 

AND  so  Soubrette  could  not  think 
of  going  when  it  looked  so  much 
like  rain,  and  Anglaise  could 
not  think  of  going  without  Soubrette, 
and  Peachblow  was  getting  nervous  about 
the  coming  examinations,  and  must  study 
as  she  knew  she  would  just  die  if  she 
failed  to  pass. 

"  You  will  anyway — sometime  !  "  said 
White  Pigeon. 

"  Don't  urge  her  ;  she  may  change  her 
mind  and  go  with  you,"  dryly  remarked 
Anglaise  with  back  towards  us  as  she 
dusted  the  mantel. 

Then  I  expressed  my  regret  that  the 
trinity  could  not  go,  and  White  Pigeon 
expressed  her  regret  because  they  had  to 
stay  at  home.  And  as  we  went  down  the 
stairs  together  we  chanted  the  Kyrie  Klei- 
189 


IRosa  JSonbeut 

son  for  our  small  sins,  easing  conscience 
by  the  mutual  confession  that  we  were 
arrant  hypocrites. 

"But  still,"  mused  White  Pigeon,  not 
quite  satisfied,  "  we  really  did  not  tell  an 
untruth — that  is  we  did  not  deceive  them 
— they  understood — I  would  n't  tell  a 
real  whopper,  would  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know— I  think  I  did  once." 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  said  White  Pigeon. 

But  I  was  saved,  for  just  as  we  reached 
the  bottom  stair  there  was  a  slight  jin- 
gling of  keys,  and  the  landlady  came  up 
through  the  floor  with  a  big  lunch-basket. 
She  pushed  the  basket  into  my  hands  and 
showering  us  with  Lombard  y  French, 
pushed  us  out  of  the  door,  and  away  we 
went  into  the  morning  grey,  the  basket 
carried  between  us.  The  basket  had  a 
hinged  cover,  and  out  of  one  corner 
emerged  the  tell-tale  neck  of  a  bottle.  It 
did  not  look  just  right  ;  suppose  we 
should  meet  someone  from  Coldwater  ? 

But  we  did  not  meet  anyone  from  Cold- 
water.     And  when  we  reached  the  rail- 

IQO 


IRosa  JBonbeur 


way  station  we  were  quite  lost  in  the 
crowd,  for  there  were  dozens  of  picuic- 
ers  all  carrying  baskets,  and  from  the 
cover  of  each  basket  emerged  the  neck 
of  a  bottle.  We  felt  quite  at  home  packed 
away  in  a  Classe  Trois  carriage  with  a 
chattering  party  of  six  High-School  bot- 
anizing youngsters.  When  the  guard 
came  to  the  window,  touched  his  cap, 
addressing  me  as  Le  Professeur,  and 
asked  for  the  tickets  for  my  family 
they  all  laughed. 

Fontainebleau  was  the  fourth  stop  from 
Paris.  My  family  scampered  out  and 
away  and  we  followed  leisurely  after. 
Fontainebleau  is  quite  smug.  There  is 
a  fashionable  hotel  near  the  station  be- 
fore which  a  fine  tall  fellow  in  uniform 
parades.  He  looked  at  our  basket  with 
contempt,  and  we  looked  at  him  in  pity. 
Just  beyond  the  hotel  are  smart  shops 
with  windows  filled  with  many-colored 
trifles  to  tempt  the  tourist.  The  shops 
gradually  grew  smaller  and  less  gay,  and 
residences  with  high  stone  walls  in  front 
191 


TRossa  JBonbeur 


took  their  places,  and  over  these  walls 
roses  nodded.  Then  there  came  a  wide 
stretch  of  pasture  and  the  town  of  Fon- 
tainebleau  was  left  behind. 

The  sun  came  out  and  came  out  and 
came  out ;  birds  chirruped  in  the  hedge- 
rows and  the  daws  in  the  high  poplars 
called  and  scolded.  The  mist  still  lin- 
gered on  the  distant  hills  and  we  could 
hear  the  tinkle  of  sheep-bells,  and  the 
barking  of  a  dog  coming  out  of  the  noth- 
ingness. 

White  Pigeon  wore  fiat-soled  shoes  and 
measured  off  the  paces  with  an  easy 
swing.  We  walked  in  silence,  filled  with 
the  rich  quiet  of  country  sounds  and 
country  sights.  What  a  relief  to  get 
away  from  noisy,  bustling,  busy  Paris. 
God  made  the  country  ! 

All  at  once  the  mists  seemed  to  lift 
from  the  long  range  of  hills  on  the  right 
and  revealed  the  dark  background  of 
forest,  broken  here  and  there  with  jutting 
rocks  and  beetling  crags.  We  stopped 
and  sat  down  on  the  bank-side  to  view 
192 


■Rosa  JBonbcur 


the  scene.  Close  up  under  the  shadow 
of  the  dark  forest  nestled  a  little  white 
village.  Near  it  was  the  red  tile  roof  of 
an  old  mansion,  half  lost  in  the  foliage. 
All  around  this  old  mansion  I  could  make 
out  a  string  of  small  buildings  or  addi- 
tions to  the  original  chateau. 

I  looked  at  White  Pigeon  and  she 
looked  at  me. 

"Yes,  that  is  the  place  !  "  she  said. 

The  sun's  rays  were  growing  warmer. 
I  took  off  my  coat  and  tucked  it  through 
the  handle  of  the  basket.  White  Pigeon 
took  off  her  jacket  to  keep  it  company, 
and  toting  the  basket,  slung  on  my  cane 
between  us,  we  moved  on  up  the  gently 
winding  way  to  the  village  of  By. 
Everybody  was  asleep  at  By,  or  else  gone 
on  a  journey.  Soon  we  came  to  the  old 
massive  moss-covered  gate-posts  that 
marked  the  entrance  to  the  mansion.  A 
chain  was  stretched  across  the  entrance 
and  we  crawled  under.  The  driveway 
was  partially  over-grown  with  grass,  and 
the  place  seemed  to  be  taking  care  of 
193 


IRcsa  JBonbeur 


itself.  Half  a  dozen  long-horned  Bonnie 
Brier  Bush  cows  were  grazing  on  the 
lawn,  their  calves  with  them  ;  and  evi- 
dently these  cows  and  calves  were  the 
only  mowiiig  machines  employed.  On 
this  wide-stretching  meadow  were  vari- 
ous old  trees  ;  one  elm  I  saw  had  fallen 
split  through  the  centre,  each  part  pros- 
trate yet  growing  green. 

Close  up  about  the  house  there  was  an 
irregular  stone  wall  and  an  ornamental 
iron  gate  with  a  pull-out  Brugglesmith 
bell  to  one  side.  We  pulled  the  bell  and 
were  answered  by  a  big  shaggy  St.  Ber- 
nard that  came  barking  and  bouncing 
around  the  corner.  I  thought  at  first  our 
time  had  come.  But  this  giant  of  a  dog 
only  approached  within  about  ten  feet 
then  lay  down  on  the  grass  and  rolled 
over  three  times  to  show  his  good-will. 
He  got  up  with  a  fine  cheery  smile  shown 
in  the  wag  of  his  tail,  just  as  a  little  maid 
unlocked  the  gate. 

"Don't  you  know  that  dog?"  asked 
White  Pigeon. 

194 


"Rosa  JBonbeur 

"  Certain ement — he  is  on  the  wall  of 
your  room." 

We  were  shown  into  a  little  reception 
parlor,  where  we  were  welcomed  by  a  tall, 
handsome  woman,  about  White  Pigeon's 
age.  The  woman  kissed  White  Pigeon 
on  one  cheek,  and  I  afterwards  asked 
White  Pigeon  why  she  did  n't  turn  to  me 
the  other,  and  she  said  I  was  a  fool. 

Then  the  tall  woman  went  to  the  door 
and  called  up  the  stairway  : 

"  Antoine,  Antoine,  guess  who  it  is? 
it  's  White  Pigeon  !  " 

A  man  came  down  the  stairs  three  steps 
at  a  time  and  took  both  of  White  Pigeon's 
hands  in  his,  after  the  hearty  manner  of 
a  gentleman,  of  France.  Then  I  was  in- 
troduced. 

Antoine  looked  at  our  lunch  basket 
with  the  funniest  look  I  ever  saw,  and 
asked  what  it  was. 

"  launch  "  said  White  Pigeon,  "  I  can- 
not tell  a  lie  !  " 

Antoine  made  wild  gesticulations  of 
displeasure,  denouncing  us  in  pantomine. 
105 


"Rosa  JBonbeur 


But  White  Pigeon  explained  that  we 
only  came  on  a  quiet  picnic  in  search  of 
ozone  and  had  dropped  in  to  make  a  little 
call  before  we  went  on  up  to  the  forest. 
But  could  we  see  the  horses  ? 

Antoine  would  be  most  delighted  to 
show  Monsieur  Littlejourneys  anything 
that  was  within  his  power.  In  fact 
everything  hereabouts  was  the  absolute 
property  of  Monsieur  Littlejourneys  to 
do  with  as  he  pleased. 

He  disappeared  up  the  stairway  to  ex- 
change his  slippers  for  shoes  and  the  tall 
woman  went  in  another  direction  for 
her  hat.  I  whispered  to  White  Pigeon, 
"  Can't  we  see  the  studio  ?  " 

"  Are  we  from  Chicago  that  we  should 
seek  to  prowl  through  a  private  house, 
when  the  mistress  is  away  ? — No,  there 
are  partly  finished  canvases  up  there 
that  are  sacred." 

"  Come  this  way,"  said  Antoine.  He 
led  us  out  through  the  library,  then  the 
dining-room  and  through  the  kitchen. 

It  is  a  very  comfortable  old  place,  with 
iq6 


IRosa  .ISonbeur 


no  extra  furniture — the  French  know 
better  than  to  burden  themselves  with 
things. 

The  long  line  of  brick  stables  seemed 
made  up  of  a  beggarly  array  of  empty 
stalls.  We  stopped  at  a  paddock  and 
Antoine  opened  the  gate  and  said, 
"  There  they  are  !  " 

"What?" 

"  The  horses." 

"  But  these  are  bronchos." 

"Yes,  I  believe  that  is  what  you  call 
them.  Monsieur  Bill  of  Buffalo,  New 
York,  sent  them  as  a  present  to  Madame 
Rosalie  when  he  was  in  Paris." 

There  they  were — two  ewe-necked  ki- 
uses — one  a  pinto  with  a  wall  eye  ;  the 
other  a  dun  with  a  black  line  down  the 
back. 

I  challenged  Antoine  to  saddle  them 
aud  we  would  ride.  The  tall  lady  took 
it  in  dead  earnest  and  throwing  her  arms 
around  Antoine's  neck  begged  him  not 
to  commit  suicide. 

197 


"Rosa  JSSonbeur 


"  And  the  Percherons — where  are 
they?" 

"  Goodness  !  we  have  no  Perches." 

"Those  that  served  as  models  for  the 
'  Horse  Fair,'  I  mean." 

White  Pigeon  took  me  gently  by  the 
sleeve,  and  turning  to  the  others  apolo- 
gized for  my  ignorance,  explaining  that 
I  did  not  know  the  Marchi  anx  Chevaux 
was  painted  over  forty  years  ago,  and 
that  the  models  were  all  Paris  cart 
horses. 

Antoine  called  up  a  little  old  man  who 
led  out  two  shaggy  little  cobs,  and  I 
was  told  that  these  were  the  horses  that 
Madame  drove.  A  roomy,  old-fashioned 
basket  phaeton  was  backed  out ;  White 
Pigeon  and  I  stepped  in  to  try  it  and 
Antoine  drew  us  once  around  the  stable 
yard.  This  is  the  only  carriage  Madame 
uses.  There  were  doves,  and  chickens, 
and  turkeys,  and  rabbits,  and  these 
horses  we  had  seen,  with  the  cows  on  the 
lawn,  make  up  all  the  animals  owned  by 
the  greatest  of  living  animal  painters. 


1Rosa  JBonbeur 


Years  ago  Rosa  Bonheur  had  a  stable 
full  of  horses  and  a  kennel  of  dogs  and  a 
park  with  deer.  Many  animals  were  sent 
as  presents.  One  man  forwarded  a  lion, 
and  another  a  brace  of  tigers,  but  Madame 
made  haste  to  present  them  to  the  Zoo- 
logical Garden  at  Paris,  because  the  folks 
at  By  would  not  venture  out  of  their 
houses — a  report  having  been  spread  that 
the  lions  were  loose. 

"  An  animal  painter  no  more  wants  to 
own  the  objects  he  paints  than  a  land- 
scape artist  wishes  a  deed  for  the  moun- 
tain he  is  sketching,"  said  Antoine. 

"Or  to  marry  his  model,"  interposed 
White  Pigeon. 

"  If  you  .see  your  model  too  often  you 
will  lose  her,"  added  the  Tall  Lady. 

We  bade  our  friends  good-bye  and 
trudged  on  up  the  hillside  to  the  storied 
Forest  of  Fontainebleau.  We  sat  down 
on  a  log  and  watched  the  winding  Seine 
stretching  away  like  a  monstrous  serpent, 
away  down  across  the  meadow  ;  just  at 
our  feet  was  the  white  village  of  By  ;  be- 
199 


TRoea  JBonbeur 

yond  was  Thomeray,  and  off  to  the  left 
rose  the  spires  of  Fontainebleau. 

"  And  who  is  this  Antoine  and  who  is 
the  Tall  Lady  ? "  I  asked,  as  White 
Pigeon  began  to  unpack  the  basket. 

"It's  quite  a  romance;  are  you  sure 
you  want  to  hear  it?  " 

11 1  must  hear  it." 

And  so  between  bites  White  Pigeon 
told  me  the  story. 

The  Tall  L*ady  is  a  niece  of  Madame 
Rosalie's.  She  was  married  to  an  army 
officer  at  Bordeaux  when  she  was  sixteen 
years  old.  Her  husband  treated  her 
shamefully  ;  he  beat  her  and  forced  her 
to  write  begging  letters  and  to  borrow 
money  of  her  relatives  and  then  he 
would  take  this  money  and  waste  it 
gambling  and  in  drink.  In  short  he 
was  a  Brute. 

Madame  Rosalie  accidently  heard  of 
all  this  and  one  day  went  down  to  Bor- 
deaux and  took  the  Tall  I^ady  away  from 
the  Brute  and  told  him  she  would  kill 
him  if  he  followed. 

200 


1Rosa  JBonbeur 


"  Did  she  paint  a  picture  of  the 
Brute?" 

"  Keep  quiet,  please." 

She  told  him  she  would  kill  him  if  he 
followed,  and  although  she  is  usually 
very  gentle  T  believe  she  would  have  kept 
her  word.  Well,  she  brought  the  Tall 
Lady  with  her  to  By  and  this  old  woman 
and  this  young  woman  loved  each  other 
very  much. 

Now  Madame  Rosalie  had  a  butler  and 
combination  man  of  business,  by  name 
Jules  Carmonne.  He  was  a  painter  of 
some  ability  and  served  Madame  in  many 
ways  right  faithfully.  Jules  loved  the 
Tall  Lady,  or  said  he  did,  but  she  did  not 
care  for  him.  He  was  near  fifty  and 
asthmatic  and  had  watery  eyes.  He 
made  things  very  uncomfortable  for  the 
Tall  Lady. 

One  night  Jules  came  to  Madame  Rosa- 
lie in  great  indignation  and  said  he  could 
not  consent  to  remain  longer  on  account 
of  the  way  things  were  going  on.  What 
was  the  trouble  ?  Trouble  enough  when 
20 1 


r 


iRosa  SBonbeut 


the  Tall  Lady  was  sneaking  out  of  the 
house  after  decent  folks  were  in  bed,  to 
meet  a  strange  man  down  in  the  ever- 
greens !  well  I  guess  so  !  ! 

How  did  he  kuow  ? 

Ah,  he  had  followed  her.  Moreover 
he  had  concealed  himself  in  the  ever- 
greens and  waited  for  them,  to  make  sure. 

Yes,  and  who  was  the  man  ? 

A  young  rogue  of  a  painter  from  Fon- 
tainebleau  named  Antoine  De  Channe- 
ville. 

Madame  Rosalie  took  Jules  Carmonne 
at  his  word.  She  said  she  was  sorry  he 
could  not  stay  but  he  might  go  if  he 
wished  to,  of  course.  And  she  paid  him 
his  salary  on  the  spot — with  two  months 
more  to  the  end  of  the  year. 

The  next  day  Madame  Rosalie  drove 
her  team  of  shaggy  ponies  down  to  Fon- 
tainebleau  and  called  on  the  young  rogue 
of  an  artist.  He  came  out  bare-headed 
and  quaking  to  where  she  sat  in  the 
phaeton  waiting.  She  flecked  the  off 
pony  twice  and  told  him  that  as  Car- 
202 


TRosa  JBonbcur 


monne  had  left  her  she  must  have  a  man 
to  help  her.  Would  he  come  ?  Aud  she 
named  as  salary  a  sum  about  five  times 
what  he  was  then  making. 

Antoine  De  Channeville  seized  the 
wheel  of  the  phaeton  for  support,  gasped 
several  gasps,  and  said  he  would  come. 

He  was  getting  barely  enough  to  eat 
out  of  his  work,  anyway,  although  he 
was  a  very  worthy  young  fellow. 

And  he  came. 

He  and  the  Tall  Lady  were  married 
about  six  months  after. 

"And  about  the  Brute  and — and  the 
divorce  !  " 

"  Gracious  goodness  !  How  do  I  know  ? 
I  guess  the  Brute  died  or  something ;  any- 
way, Antoine  and  the  Tall  Lady  are  man 
and  wife,  and  are  devoted  lovers  besides. 
They  have  served  Madame  Rosalie  most 
loyally  for  these  fifteen  years.  They  say 
Madame  has  made  her  will  and  left 
them  the  mansion  and  everything  in  it 
for  their  own  est  own,  with  a  tidy  sum 
beside  to  put  on  interest." 
203 


IRosa  ffionbeur 


It  was  four  o'clock  when  we  got  back 
to  the  railroad  station  at  Fontainebleau. 
We  missed  the  train  we  expected  to  take, 
and  had  an  hour  to  wait.  White  Pigeon 
said  she  did  not  care  so  very  much,  and 
I  'm  sure  I  did  n't.  So  we  sat  down  in 
the  bright  little  waiting-room,  and  White 
Pigeon  told  me  many  things  about  Ma- 
dame Rosalie  and  her  early  life  that  I  had 
never  known  before. 


204 


IV. 

EARLY  in  the  century  there  lived  in 
Bordeaux  a  struggling  artist  (art- 
ists always  struggle,  you  know) 
by  the  name  of  Raymond  Bonheur.  He 
found  life  a  cruel  thing,  for  bread  was 
high  in  price  and  short  in  weight,  and 
no  one  seemed  to  appreciate  art  except 
the  folks  who  had  no  money  to  buy. 
But  the  poor  can  love  as  well  as  the  rich, 
and  Raymond  married.  In  his  nervous 
desire  for  success,  Raymond  Bonheur 
said  that  if  he  could  only  have  a  son  he 
would  teach  him  how  to  do  it,  and  the 
son  would  achieve  the  honors  that  the 
world  withheld  from  the  father. 

So  the    days    came  and   went,   and   a 

son  was  expected — a  first-born — an  heir. 

There   was  n't    anything  to   be  heir  to 

except   genius,  but  there  was  plenty  of 

205 


IRosa  JSonbeur 


that.  The  heir  was  to  bear  the  name  of 
the  father — Raymond  Bonheur.  Prayers 
were  offered  and  thanksgivings  sung. 

The  days  were  fulfilled.  The  child  was 
born. 

The  heir  was  a  girl. 

Raymond  Bonheur  cursed  wildly  and 
towsled  his  hair  like  a  bouffe  artist.  He 
swore  he  had  been  tricked,  trapped,  se- 
duced, undone.  He  would  have  bought 
strong  drink,  but  he  had  no  money,  and 
credit,  like  hope,  was  gone. 

The  little  mother  cried. 

But  the  baby  grew,  although  it  was  n't 
a  very  big  baby.  They  named  her  Rosa, 
because  the  initial  was  the  same  as  Ray- 
mond, but  they  always  called  her  Rosa- 
lie. 

Then  in  a  year  another  baby  came,  and 
that  was  a  boy.  In  two  years  another, 
but  Raymond  never  forgave  his  wife  that 
first  offence.  He  continued  to  struggle, 
trying  various  styles  of  pictures  and  ever 
hoping  he  would  yet  hit  on  what  the  pub- 
lic desired.  Mr.  Vanderbilt  had  not  yet 
206 


ftoea  JSonbcur 


made  his  famous  remark  about  the  pub- 
lic, and  how  could  Raymond  plagiarize 
it  in  advance? 

At  last  he  got  money  enough  to  get  to 
Paris — ah,  yes,  Paris,  Paris,  there  talent 
is  appreciated  ! 

In  Paris  another  baby  was  born — it  was 
looked  upon  as  a  calamity.  The  poor 
little  mother  of  the  four  little  shivering 
Bonheurs  ceased  to  struggle.  She  lay 
quite  still,  and  they  covered  her  face 
with  a  white  sheet  and  talked  in  whis- 
pers, and  walked  on  tiptoe,  for  she  was 
dead. 

When  an  artist  cannot  succeed  he 
begins  to  teach  art — that  is,  he  shows 
others  how.  Raymond  Bonheur  put  his 
four  children  out  among  kinsmen  in  four 
different  places,  and  became  drawing- 
master  in  a  private  school. 

Rosa  Bonheur  was  ten  years  old  :  a 
pug-nosed,  square-faced  little  girl  in  a 
linsey-woolsey  dress,  wooden  shoon,  with 
a  yellow  braid  hauging  down  her  back 
tied  with  shoe-string.  She  could  draw 
207 


IRosa  JBonbeur 


— all  childreu  can  draw — and  the  first 
things  children  draw  are  animals.  Her 
father  had  taught  her  a  little  and  laughed 
at  her  foolish  little  lions  and  tigers,  all 
duly  labelled. 

When  twelve  years  of  age  the  good 
people  with  whom  she  lived  said  she 
must  learn  dressmaking.  She  should 
be  an  artist  of  the  needle.  But  after 
some  months  she  rebelled  and,  making 
her  way  across  the  city  to  where  her 
father  was,  demanded  that  he  should 
teach  her  drawing.  Raymond  Bonheur 
had  n't  much  will — this  controversy 
proved  that — the  child  mastered,  and  the 
father,  who  really  was  an  accomplished 
draughtsman,  began  giving  daily  lessons 
to  the  girl.  Soon  they  worked  together 
in  the  Louvre,  copying  pictures. 

It  was  a  queer  thing  to  teach  a  girl 
art — there  were  no  women  artists  then. 
People  laughed  to  see  a  little  girl  with 
a  yellow  braid  mixing  paints  and  help- 
ing her  father  in  the  Louvre ;  others 
said  it  was  n't  right. 

30$ 


TRosa  JSonbcur 


"  Let 's  cut  off  the  braid,  and  I  '11  wear 
boy's  clothes  and  be  a  boy,"  said  funny 
little  Rosalie. 

Next  day  Raymond  Bouheur  had  a 
close-cropped  boy  in  loose  trousers  and 
blue  blouse  to  help  him. 

The  pictures  they  copied  began  to  sell. 
Buyers  said  the  work  was  strong  and 
true.  Prosperity  came  that  way,  and 
Raymond  Bonheur  got  his  four  children 
together  and  rented  three  rooms  in  a 
house  at  157  Faubourg  Saint  Honore\ 

Rosalie  saw  that  her  father  had  always 
tried  to  please  the  public  ;  she  would 
please  no  one  but  herself.  He  had  tried 
many  forms ;  she  would  stick  to  one. 
She  would  . paint  animals  and  nothing 
else. 

When  eighteen  years  old  she  painted 
a  picture  of  rabbits,  for  the  Salon.  The 
next  year  she  tried  again.  She  made  the 
acquaintance  of  an  honest  old  farmer  at 
Villiers  and  went  to  live  in  his  house- 
hold. She  painted  pictures  of  all  the 
live-stock  he  possessed,  from  rabbits  to 
209 


TRosa  JBonbeur 

a  Norman  stallion.  One  of  the  pictures 
she  then  made  was  that  of  a  favorite 
Holland  cow.  A  collector  came  down 
from  Paris  and  offered  three  hundred 
francs  for  the  picture. 

"Merciful  Jesus!''  said  the  pious 
farmer  ;  ' '  say  nothing,  but  get  the  money 
quick.  The  live  cow  herself  is  n't  worth 
half  that !" 

The  members  of  the  Bonheur  family 
married,  one  by  one,  including  the  father. 
Rosa  did  not  marry  :  she  painted.  She 
discarded  all  teachers,  all  schools ;  she 
did  not  even  listen  to  the  suggestions  of 
patrons,  and  even  refused  to  make  pict- 
ures to  order.  And  be  it  said  to  her 
credit,  she  never  has  allowed  a  buyer  to 
dictate  the  subject.  She  followed  her 
own  ideas  in  everything ;  she  wore  men's 
clothes,  and  does  even  unto  this  day. 

When  she  was  twenty-five  the  Salon 
awarded  her  a  gold  medal.  The  Minis- 
tere  des  Beaux  Arts  paid  her  three  thou- 
sand francs  for  her  Labourge  Nivernais. 

Raymond  Bonheur  grew  ill  in  1849, 
210 


"Rosa  JBonbeur 

but  before  he  passed  out  he  realized  that 
his  daughter,  then  twenty-seven  years 
old,  was  on  a  level  with  the  greatest 
masters,  living  or  dead. 

She  began  The  Horse  Fair -when  twen- 
ty-eight.  It  was  the  largest  canvas  ever 
attempted  by  an  animal  painter.  It  was 
exhibited  at  the  Salon  in  1853,  an<3  all 
the  gabble  of  jealous  competitors  was 
lost  in  the  glorious  admiration  it  ex- 
cited. It  became  the  rage  of  Paris.  All 
the  honors  the  Salon  could  bestow  were 
heaped  upon  the  young  woman,  and  by 
special  decision  all  of  her  work  hence- 
forth was  declared  exempt  from  exami- 
nation by  the  Jury  of  Admission.  Rosa 
Bonheur,  five  feet  four,  weighing  120 
pounds,  was  bigger  than  the  Salon. 

But  success  did  not  cause  her  to  swerve 
a  hair's-breadth  from  her  manner  of  work 
or  life.  She  refused  all  social  invitations, 
and  worked  away  after  her  own  method  as 
industriously  as  ever.  When  a  picture 
was  completed  she  set  her  price  on  it  and 
it  was  sold. 

211 


IRosa  JBonbeur 


In  i860  she  bought  this  fine  old  house 
at  By,  that  she  might  work  in  quiet. 
Society  tried  to  follow  her,  and  in  1864 
the  Emperor  Napoleon  and  Princess  Eu- 
genie went  to  By,  and  the  Princess  pinned 
to  the  blue  blouse  of  Rosa  Bonheur  the 
Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  the  first 
time,  I  believe,  that  the  distinction  was 
ever  conferred  on  a  woman. 

And  now  at  seventy-four  she  is  still  in 
love  with  life,  and  while  taking  a  wo- 
man's tender  interest  in  all  sweet  and 
gentle  things,  has  yet  an  imagination 
that  in  its  strength  and  boldness  is 
splendidly  masculine. 

Rosa  Bonheur  has  received  all  the  hon- 
ors that  man  can  give.  She  is  rich  ;  no 
words  of  praise  that  tongue  can  utter  can 
add  to  her  fame  ;  and  she  is  beloved  by 
•11  who  know  her. 


212 


MADAME  DE  STAEI 


21 


Far  from  gaining  assurance  in  meeting  Buona- 
parte oftener,  he  intimidated  me  daily  more 
and  more.  I  confusedly  felt  that  no  emotion  of 
the  heart  could  possibly  take  effect  upon  him. 
He  looks  upon  a  human  being  as  a  fact  or  as  a 
thing,  but  not  as  a  fellow-creature;  Hedoes  not 
hate  any  more  than  he  loves  ;  there  is  nothing 
for  him  but  himself ;  all  other  beings  are  so 
many  ciphers.  The  force  of  his  will  lies  in  the 
imperturbable  calculation  of  his  selfishness. 

Reflections. 


»J4 


s/loA*  &/f«l£  /C-4&1 


MADAME   DE  STAEL 
i. 

FATE  was  very  kind  to  Madame  De 
Stael. 

She  ran  the  gamut  of  life  from 
highest  love  to  direst  pain — from  rosy 
dawn  to  blackest  night.  Name  if  you 
can  another  woman  who  touched  life  at 
so  many  points  !  Home,  health,  wealth, 
strength,  honors,  affection,  applause, 
motherhood,  loss,  danger,  death,  defeat, 
sacrifice,  humiliation,  illness,  banish- 
ment, imprisonment,  escape.  Again 
comes  hope — returning  strength,  wealth, 
recognition,  fame  tempered  by  opposi- 
tion, home,  a  few  friends,  and  kindly 
death — cool,  all-enfolding  death. 

If  Harriet  Martineau  showed  poor 
judgment  in  choosing  her  parents  we 
can  lay  no  such  charge  to  the  account  of 
Madame  De  Stael. 

215 


/IbaOame  ®e  StaSl 

They  called  her  "  The  Daughter  of 
Necker,"  and  all  through  life  she  de- 
lighted in  the  title.  The  courtier  who 
addressed  her  thus  received  a  sunny 
smile  and  a  gentle  love  tap  on  his  cheek 
for  pay.  A  splendid  woman  is  usually 
the  daughter  of  her  father,  just  as  stroug 
men  have  noble  mothers. 

Jacques  Necker  was  born  in  Geneva 
and  went  up  to  the  city,  like  many 
another  country  boy,  to  make  his  fortune. 
He  carried  with  him  to  Paris  innocence, 
health,  high  hope,  and  twenty  francs  in 
silver.  He  found  a  place  as  porter  or 
"trotter"  in  a  bank.  Soon  they  made 
him  clerk. 

A  letter  came  one  day  from  a  correspond- 
ent asking  for  a  large  loan  and  setting 
forth  a  complex  financial  scheme  in  which 
the  bank  was  invited  to  join.  M.  Vernet, 
the  head  of  the  establishment,  was  away 
and  young  Necker  took  the  matter  in 
hand.  He  made  a  detailed  statement  of 
the  scheme,  computed  probable  losses, 
weighed  the  pros  and  cons,  and  when 
216 


/IfcaOame  Be  Stael 


the  employer  returned,  the  plan,  all 
worked  out,  was  on  his  desk,  with  young 
Necker's  advice  that  the  loan  be  made. 

' '  You  seem  to  know  all  about  bank- 
ing ?  ' '  was  the  sarcastic  remark  of  M. 
Vernet. 

"  I  do,"  was  the  proud  answer. 

"  You  know  too  much,  I  '11  just  put 
you  back  as  porter." 

The  Genevese  accepted  the  reduction 
and  went  back  as  porter  without  repining. 
A  man  of  small  sense  would  have  re- 
signed his  situation  at  once,  just  as  men 
are  ever  forsaking  Fortune  when  she  is 
about  to  smile  ;  witness  Cato  committing 
suicide  on  the  very  eve  of  success. 

There  is  always  a  demand  for  efficient 
men,  the  market  is  never  glutted  ;  the 
cities  are  hungry  for  them — but  the 
trouble  is  few  men  are  efficient. 

"It  was  none  of  his  business!"  said 
M.  Vernet  to  his  partner,  trying  to  ease 
conscience  with  reasons. 

"  Yes,  but  see  how  he  accepted  the 
inevitable ! " 

217 


/RaOamc  S)e  Stael 

"Ah!  true,  he  has  two  qualities  that 
are  only  the  property  of  strong  men : 
confidence  and  resignation— I  think — I 
think  I  was  hasty  !  " 

So  young  Necker  was  reinstated  and  in 
six  months  was  cashier  ;  in  three  years 
a  partner. 

Not  long  after,  he  married  Susanna 
Curchod,  a  poor  governess.  But  Mile. 
Curchod  was  rich  in  mental  endowment : 
refined,  gentle,  spiritual,  she  was  a  true 
mate  to  the  high-minded  Necker.  She 
was  a  Swiss  too,  and  if  you  know  how  a 
young  man  and  a  young  woman,  country 
born,  in  a  strange  city  are  attracted  to 
each  other  you  will  better  understand 
this  particular  situation. 

Some  years  before,  Gibbon  had  loved 
and  courted  the  beautiful  Mademoiselle 
Curchod  in  her  quiet  home  in  the  Jura 
Mountains.  They  became  engaged. 
Gibbon  wrote  home,  breaking  the  happy 
news  to  his  parents. 

"  Has  the  beautiful  Curchod  of  whom 

218 


/fcaDame  De  Stael 


you  sing,  a  large  dowry  ?  "  enquired  the 
mother. 

"  She  has  no  dowry  !  I  cannot  tell  a 
lie,"  was  the  meek  answer.  The  mother 
came  on  and  extinguished  the  match  in 
short  order. 

Gibbon  never  married.  But  he  frank- 
ly tells  us  all  about  his  love  for  Susanna 
Curchod  and  relates  how  he  visited  her, 
years  after,  in  her  splendid  Paris  home. 
"She  greeted  me  without  embarrass- 
ment," says  Gibbon,  resentfully,  "  and  in 
the  evening  Xecker  left  us  together  in 
the  parlor,  bade  me  good-night,  and 
lighting  a  candle  went  off  to  bed  !  '' 

Gibbon,  historiau  aud  philosopher,  was 
made  of  common  clay  (for  authors  are 
made  of  clay)  like  plain  mortals,  and  he 
could  not  quite  forgive  Madame  Necker 
for  not  being  embarrassed  on  meeting  her 
former  lover,  neither  could  he  forgive 
Necker  for  not  being  jealous. 

But  that  only  daughter  of  the  Neckers, 
Germaine,  pleased  Gibbon — pleased  him 
better  than  the  mother,  and  Gibbon  ex- 
219 


dRaDame  2>e  Stael 


tended  his  stay  in  Paris  and  called  often. 
"She  was  a  splendid  creature,"  Gibbon 
relates — "only  seventeen,  but  a  woman 
grown,  physically  and  mentally ;  not 
handsome  but  dazzling,  brilliant,  emo- 
tional, sensitive,  daring  !  " 

Gibbon  was  a  bit  of  a  romanticist,  as  all 
historians  are,  and  he  no  doubt  thought 
it  would  be  a  fine  denouement  to  life's 
play  to  capture  the  daughter  of  his  old 
sweetheart,  and  avenge  himself  on  fate 
and  the  unembarrassed  Madame  Necker 
and  the  unpiqued  husband,  all  at  one  fell 
stroke— and  she  would  not  be  dowerless 
either.     Ha,  ha  ! 

But  Gibbon  forgot  that  he  was  past 
forty,  short  in  stature,  and  short  of  breath, 
and  "  miles  around,"  as  Talleyrand  put  it. 

"I  quite  like  you,"  said  the  daring 
daughter,  as  the  eloquent  Gibbon  sat  by 
her  side  at  a  dinner. 

"  Why  should  n't  you  like  me — I  came 
near  being  your  papa  !  " 

"  I  know,  and  would  I  have  looked  like 
you?  " 

220 


/fcadame  ©e  Stael 


"Perhaps," 

"  What  a  calamity  !" 

Even  then  she  possessed  that  same 
babbling  wit  that  was  hers  years  later 
when  she  sat  at  table  with  D'  Alembert. 
On  one  side  of  the  great  author  was 
Madame  R6camier,  famous  for  beauty 
(andlaterfor  a  certain  "  Beauty-Cream  "), 
on  the  other  the  daughter  of  Necker. 

"  How  fortunate  !  "  exclaimed  D'  Alem- 
bert with  rapture.  "  How  fortunate  !  I 
sit  between  Wit  and  Beauty  !  " 

"Yes,  and  without  possessing  either," 
said  Wit. 

No  mistake,  the  girl's  intellect  was  too 
speedy  even  for  Gibbon.  She  fenced  all 
'round  him  and  over  him,  and  he  soon 
discovered  that  she  was  icily  gracious  to 
everyone,  save  her  father  alone.  For 
him  she  seemed  to  outpour  all  the  lavish 
love  of  her  splendid  womanhood.  It  was 
unlike  the  usual  calm  affection  of  father 
and  daughter.  It  was  a  great  and  absorb- 
ing love,  of  which  even  the  mother  was 
jealous. 

221 


dfta&ame  2>e  Stael 

"  I  can't  just  exactly  make  'em  out," 
said  Gibbon,  and  withdrew  in  good  order. 

Before  Necker  was  forty  he  had  accu- 
mulated a  fortune,  and  retired  from  busi- 
ness to  devote  himself  to  literature  and 
the  polite  arts.  "  I  have  earned  a  rest," 
he  said,  "  besides  I  must  have  leisure  to 
educate  my  daughter." 

Men  are  constantly  "retiring"  from 
business,  but  someway  the  expected  Ely- 
sium of  leisure  forever  eludes  us.  Necker 
had  written  several  good  pamphlets  and 
showed  the  world  that  he  had  ability  out- 
side of  money  making.  He  was  ap- 
pointed Resident  Minister  of  Geneva  at 
the  Court  of  France.  Soon  after  he  be- 
came President  of  the  French  East  India 
Co.,  because  there  was  no  one  else  with 
mind  broad  enough  to  fill  the  place.  His 
house  was  the  gathering  place  of  many 
eminent  scholars  and  statesmen.  Necker 
was  quiet  and  reserved  ;  his  wife  was 
coldly  brilliant,  cultured,  dignified,  re- 
ligious. The  daughter  made  good  every 
deficiency  in  both. 

222 


dftadame  De  Stael 


She  was  tall,  finely  formed,  but  her 
features  were  rather  heavy,  and  in  repose 
there  was  a  languor  in  her  manner  and  a 
blankness  in  her  face.  This  seeming 
dulness  marks  all  great  actors,  but  the 
heaviness  is  only  on  the  surface  ;  it  often 
covers  a  sleeping  volcano.  On  recogniz- 
ing an  acquaintance  Germaiue  Necker's 
face  would  be  illumined,  and  her  smile 
would  light  a  room.  She  could  pro- 
nounce a  man's  name  so  he  would  be 
ready  to  throw  himself  at  her  feet,  or  over 
a  precipice  for  her.  And  she  made  it  a  rule 
to  know  names  and  to  speak  them.  Then 
she  could  listen  in  a  way  that  compli- 
mented, and  by  a  sigh,  a  nod,  an  exclama- 
tion, bring  out  the  best — such  thoughts 
as  a  man  uever  knew  he  had.  She  made 
people  surprise  themselves  with  their 
own  genius  ;  thus  proving  that  to  make  a 
good  impression  means  to  make  the  man 
pleased  with  himself.  "  Any  man  can  be 
brilliant  with  her,"  said  a  nettled  com- 
petitor, "  but  if  she  wishes,  she  can  sink 
all  women  in  a  room  intocreepingthings." 
223 


dftafcame  Dc  Stael 


She  knew  how  to  compliment  without 
flattering ;  her  cordiality  warmed  like 
wine,  and  her  ready  wit,  repartee,  and 
ability  to  thaw  all  social  ice,  and  lead 
conversation  along  any  line,  were  accom- 
plishments which  perhaps  have  never 
been  equalled.  The  women  who  "  enter- 
tain "  often  only  depress  ;  they  are  so 
glowing  that  everybody  else  feels  himself 
punk.  And  these  people  who  are  too 
clever  are  very  numerous  ;  they  seem  in- 
wardly to  fear  rivals,  and  are  intent  on 
working  while  it  is  called  the  day. 

Over  against  these  are  the  celebrities 
who  sit  in  a  corner  and  smile  knowingly 
when  they  are  expected  to  scintillate. 
And  the  individual  who  talks  too  much 
at  one  time  is  often  painfully  silent  at 
another — as  if  he  had  made  New  Year 
resolves.  But  the  daughter  of  Necker 
entered  into  conversation  with  candor 
and  abandon  ;  she  gave  herself  to  others, 
and  knew  whether  they  wished  to  talk 
or  listen.  On  occasion,  she  could  mono- 
polize conversation  until  she  seemed 
224 


/Iftafcame  5>e  Stael 


the  only  person  in  the  room  ;  but  all 
talent  was  brighter  for  the  added  lustre 
of  her  own.  This  simplicity,  this  utter 
frankness,  this  complete  absence  of  self- 
consciousness  was  like  the  flight  of  a  bird 
that  never  doubts  its  power,  simply  be- 
cause it  never  thinks  of  it.  Yet  continual 
power  produces  arrogance,  and  the  soul 
unchecked  finally  believes  in  its  own 
omniscience. 

Of  course  such  a  matrimonial  prize  as 
the  daughter  of  Necker  was  sought  for, 
even  fought  for.  But  the  women  who  can 
see  clear  through  a  man,  like  a  Roent- 
gen ray,  do  not  invite  soft  demonstration. 
They  give  passion  a  chill.  Love  demands 
a  little  illusion  ;  it  must  be  clothed  in 
mystery.  And  although  we  find  evid- 
ence that  many  youths  stood  in  the 
hallways  and  sighed,  the  daughter  of 
Necker  never  saw  fit  by  a  nod  to  bring 
them  to  her  feet.  She  was  after  bigger 
game — she  desired  the  admiration  and 
approbation  of  archbishops,  cardinals, 
generals,  statesmen,  great  authors. 
225 


/IftaDame  ©e  Stael 

Germaine  Necker  had  110  conception  of 
what  love  is.  Many  women  never  have. 
Had  this  fine  young  woman  met  a  man 
with  intellect  as  clear,  mind  as  vivid,  and 
heart  as  warm  as  her  own,  and  had  he 
pierced  her  through  with  a  wit  as  strong 
and  keen  as  she  herself  wielded,  her  pride 
would  have  been  broken  and  she  might 
have  paused.  Then  they  might  have 
looked  into  each  other's  eyes  and  lost  self 
there.  And  had  she  thus  known  love  it 
would  have  been  a  complete  passion,  for 
the  woman  seemed  capable  of  it. 

A  better  pen  than  mine  has  written  "  a 
woman's  love  is  a  dog's  love."  The  dog 
that  craves  naught  else  but  the  presence 
of  his  master,  who  is  faithful  to  the  one 
and  whines  out  his  life  on  that  master's 
grave,  waiting  for  the  caress  that  never 
comes  and  the  cheery  voice  that  is  never 
heard — that 's  the  way  a  woman  loves  ! 
A  woman  may  admire,  respect,  revere,  and 
obey,  but  she  does  not  love  until  a  passion 
seizes  upon  her  that  has  in  it  the  abandon 
pi  Niagara,  Do  you  remember  how  Nancy 
226 


/IftaDame  2>e  Stael 

Sikes  crawls  inch  by  inch  to  reach  the 
hand  of  Bill,  and  reaching  it,  tenderly 
caresses  the  coarse  fingers  that  a  moment 
before  clutched  her  throat,  and  dies  con- 
tent ?  That 's  the  love  of  woman  !  The 
prophet  spoke  of  something  "passing 
the  love  of  women,"  but  the  prophet  was 
wrong — there  's  nothing  does. 

So  Germain  e  Necker,  the  gracious,  the 
kindly,  the  charming,  did  not  love.  How- 
ever, she  married — married  Baron  De 
Stael,  the  Swedish  Ambassador.  He  was 
thirty-seven,  she  was  twenty.  De  Stael 
was  good-looking,  polite,  educated.  He 
always  smiled  at  the  right  time,  said 
bright  things  in  the  right  way,  kept 
silence  when  he  should,  and  made  no 
enemies  because  he  agreed  with  every- 
body about  everything.  Stipulations  were 
made;  a  long  agreement  was  drawn  up  ; 
it  was  signed  by  the  party  of  the  first 
part  and  duly  executed  by  the  party  of 
the  second  part ;  sealed,  witnessed,  sworn 
to,  and  the  priest  was  summoned. 

It  was  a  happy  marriage.  The  first  three 
227 


dfcafcame  ~Bc  Stael 


years  of  married  life  were  the  happiest 
Madame  De  Stael  ever  knew,  she  said 
long  afterward. 

Possibly  there  are  hasty  people  who 
will  imagine  they  detect  tincture  of  iron 
somewhere  in  these  pages :  these  good  peo- 
ple will  say,  "  Gracious  me !  why  not  ?  " 

And  so  I  will  admit  that  these  respect- 
able, well  arranged,  and  carefully  planned 
marriages  are  often  happy  and  peaceful. 
The  couple  may  "raise"  a  large  family 
and  slide  through  life  and  out  of  it  with- 
out a  splash.  I  will  also  admit  that  love 
does  not  necessarily  imply  happiness — 
more  often  't  is  a  pain,  a  wild  yearning, 
and  a  vague  unrest  ;  a  haunting  sense  of 
heart  hunger  that  drives  a  man  into  ex- 
ile repeating  abstractedly  the  name  of 
"Beatrice  !  Beatrice  !  " 

And  so  all  the  moral  I  will  make  now 
is  simply  this  :  the  individual  who  has 
not  known  an  all-absorbing  love  has  not 
the  spiritual  vision  that  is  a  passport  to 
Paradise.  He  forever  yammers  between 
the  worlds,  fit  neither  for  heaven  nor  hell. 
228 


II. 


NECKER  retired  from  business  that 
he  might  enjoy  peace  ;  his  daugh- 
ter married  for  the  same  reason. 
It  was  stipulated  that  she  should  never  be 
separated  from  her  father.  She  who  stipu- 
lates is  lost — so  far  as  love  goes,  but  no 
matter  !  Married  women  in  France  are 
greater  lions  in  society  than  maidens  can 
possibly  hope  to  be.  The  marriage  cert- 
ificate serves  at  once  as  a  license  for  bril- 
liancy, daring,  splendor,  and  it  is  also  a 
badge  of  respectability.  The  marriage 
certificate  is  a  document  that  in  all  coun- 
tries is  ever  taken  care  of  by  the  woman 
and  never  the  man.  And  this  document 
is  especially  useful  in  France,  as  French 
dames  know.  Frenchmen  are  afraid  of 
an  unmarried  woman — she  means  danger, 
damages,  a  midnight  marriage  and  other 
22y 


/Ra&amc  ©c  Stael 

awful  things.  An  unmarried  woman  in 
France  cannot  hope  to  be  a  social  leader, 
and  to  be  a  social  leader  was  the  one 
ambition  of  Madame  De  Stael. 

It  was  called  the  salon  of  Madame  De 
Stael  now.  Baron  De  Stael  was  known 
as  the  husband  of  Madame  De  Stael.  The 
salon  of  Madame  Necker  was  only  a  mat- 
ter of  reminiscence.  The  daughter  of 
Necker  was  greater  than  her  father,  and, 
as  for  Madame  Necker,  she  was  a  mere 
figure  in  towering  head-dress,  point  lace 
and  diamonds.  Talleyrand  summed  up 
the  case  when  he  said,  "She  is  one  of 
those  dear  old  things  that  have  to  be 
tolerated." 

Madame  De  Stael  had  a  taste  for  litera- 
ture from  early  womanhood.  She  wrote 
beautiful  little  essays  and  read  them  aloud 
to  her  company,  and  her  manuscripts  had 
a  circulation  like  unto  her  father's  batik 
notes.  She  had  the  faculty  of  absorbing 
beautiful  thoughts  and  sentiments,  and 
no  woman  ever  expressed  them  in  a  more 
graceful  way.  People  said  she  was  the 
230 


/fcafcame  2>e  Stael 

greatest  woman  author  of  her  day.  "  You 
mean  of  all  time,"  corrected  Diderot. 
They  called  her  "  the  High  Priestess  of 
Letters,"  "the  Minerva  of  Poetry," 
"Sappho  Returned,"  and  all  that.  Her 
commendation  meant  success  and  her  in- 
difference failure.  She  knew  politics  too 
and  her  hands  were  on  all  wires.  Did  she 
wish  to  placate  a  minister,  she  invited 
him  to  call,  and  once  there  he  was  as 
putty  in  her  hands.  She  skimmed  the 
surface  of  all  languages,  all  arts,  all  his- 
tory, but  best  of  all  she  knew  the  human 
heart. 

Of  course  there  was  a  realm  of  know- 
ledge she  wist  not  of — the  initiates  of 
which  never  ventured  within  her  scope. 
She  had  nothing  for  them — they  kept 
away.  But  the  proud,  the  vain,  the  am- 
bitious, the  ennui-ridden,  the-people- 
who-wish-to-be,  and  who  are  ever  looking 
for  the  strong  man  to  give  them  help — 
these  thronged  her  parlors. 

And  when  you  have  named  these  you 
have  named  all  those  who  are  foremost  in 
231 


dfcafcame  2)e  Stael 


commerce,  politics,  art,  education,  phil- 
anthropy, and  religion.  The  world  is 
run  by  second-rate  people.  The  best  are 
speedily  crucified,  or  else  never  heard  of 
until  long  after  they  are  dead.  Madame 
De  Stael,  in  1788,  was  queen  of  the  people 
who  ran  the  world — at  least  the  French 
part  of  it. 

But  intellectual  power  like  physical 
strength  endures  but  for  a  day.  Giants 
who  have  a  giant's  strength  and  use  it 
like  a  giant  must  be  put  down.  If  you 
have  intellectual  power,  hide  it ! 

Do  thy  daily  work  in  thine  own  little 
way  and  be  content.  The  personal  touch 
repels  as  well  as  attracts.  Thy  presence 
is  a  menace — thy  existence  an  affront — 
beware  !  They  are  weaving  a  net  for  thy 
feet  and  hear  you  not  the  echo  of  ham- 
mering, as  of  men  building  a  scaffold  ? 

Go  read  history  !  thinkest  thou  that  all 
men  are  mortal  save  thee  alone,  and  that 
what  has  befallen  others  cannot  happen 
to  thee  ?  The  Devil  has  no  title  to  this 
property  he  now  promises.  Fool !  thou 
232 


Aadame  2)e  Stael 


hast  no  more  claim  on  Fate  than  they 
who  have  gone  before,  and  what  has  come 
to  others  in  like  conditions  must  come  to 
thee.  God  himself  cannot  stay  it ;  it  is 
so  written  in  the  stars.  Power  to  lead 
men  !  Pray  that  thy  prayer  shall  ne'er 
be  granted — 't  is  to  be  carried  to  the  top- 
most pinnacle  of  Fame's  temple  tower 
and  there  cast  headlong  upon  the  stones 
beneath.     Beware  !  beware  ! ! 


233 


III. 

MADAME  DE  STAEIv  was  of  au 
intensely  religious  nature 
throughout  her  entire  life  ;  such 
characters  swing  between  license  and 
ascetism.  But  the  charge  of  atheism  told 
largely  against  her  even  among  the  so- 
called  liberals,  for  liberals  are  often  very 
illiberal.  Maria  Antoinette  gathered  her 
skirts  close  about  her  and  looked  at  the 
"  Minerva  of  Letters  "  with  suspicion  in 
her  big  open  eyes  ;  cabinet  officers  forgot 
her  requests  to  call,  and  when  a  famous 
wit  once  coolly  asked,  "Who  was  that 
Madame  De  Stael  we  used  to  read  about  ? " 
people  roared  with  laughter. 

Necker,   as  Minister  of  Finance,  had 
saved  the  State  from  financial  ruin  ;  then 
been    deposed    and   banished ;  then    re- 
called.    In  September,  1790,  he  was  again 
234 


jffcaOame  E>c  Stael 

compelled  to  flee.  He  escaped  to  Switzer- 
land, disguised  as  a  pedler.  The  daugh- 
ter wished  to  accompany  him  but  this  was 
impossible,  for  only  a  week  before  she 
had  given  birth  to  her  first  child. 

But  favor  came  back  and  in  the  mad 
tumult  of  the  times  the  freedom  and  wit 
and  sparkle  of  her  salon  became  a  need 
to  the  poets  and  philosophers,  if  city  wits 
can  be  so  called. 

Society  shone  as  never  before.  In  it 
was  the  good  nature  of  the  mob.  It  was 
no  time  to  sit  quietly  at  home  and  enjoy 
a  book — men  and  women  must  "  go  some- 
where," they  must  "do  something." 
The  women  adopted  the  Greek  costume 
and  appeared  in  simple  white  robes  caught 
at  the  shoulders  with  miniature  stilettos, 
Many  men  wore  crepe  on  their  arms  in 
pretended  memory  of  friends  who  had 
been  kissed  by  Madame  Guillotine. 
There  was  fever  in  the  air,  fever  in  the 
blood,  and  the  passions  held  high  carni- 
val. In  solitude  danger  depresses  all  save 
the  very  strongest,  but  the  mob  (ever  the 
235 


Aa&ame  s>c  stael 


symbol  of  weakness)  is  made  up  of  women 
— it  is  an  effeminate  thing.  It  laughs 
hysterically  at  death  and  cries,  "  on  with 
the  dance."  Women  represent  the  oppo- 
site poles  of  virtue. 

The  fever  continues  :  a  "poverty  party  " 
is  given  by  Madame  De  Stael  where  men 
dress  in  rags  and  women  wear  tattered 
gowns  that  ill  conceal  their  charms. 
"We  must  get  used  to  it,"  she  said  and 
everybody  laughed.  Soon  men  in  the 
streets  wear  red  night  caps,  women  ap- 
pear in  night  gowns,  rich  men  wear 
wooden  shoes,  and  young  men  in  gangs 
of  twelve  parade  the  avenues  at  night 
carrying  heavy  clubs,  hurrahing  for  this 
or  that. 

Yes,  society  in  Paris  was  never  so  gay. 

The  salons  were  crowded  and  politics 
was  the  theme.  When  the  discussion 
waxed  too  warm  someone  would  start  a 
hymn  and  all  would  chime  in  until  the 
contestants  were  drowned  out  and  in 
token  of  submission  joined  in  the  chorus. 

But  Madame  De  Stael  was  very  busy 
236 


/fcaframe  2>e  Stael 


all  these  days.  Her  house  was  filled  with 
refugees,  and  she  rau  here  and  there  for 
passports  and  pardons,  and  beseeched 
ministers  and  archbishops  for  interference 
or  assistance  or  amnesty  or  succor  and  all 
of  those  things  that  great  men  can  give 
or  bestow  or  effect  or  filch.  And  when 
her  smiles  failed  to  win  the  wished-for 
signature  she  still  had  tears  that  would 
move  a  heart  of  brass. 

About  this  time  Baron  De  Stael  fades 
from  our  vision,  leaving  with  Madame 
three  children. 

"It  was  never  anything  but  a  mariage 
de  convenance  anyway,  what  of  it !  "  and 
Madame  bursts  into  tears  and  throws  her- 
self into  Farquar's  arms. 

"Compose  yourself,  my  dear — you  are 
spoiling  my  gown,"  says  the  Duchesse. 

"  I  stood  him  as  long  as  I  could,"  con- 
tinued Madame. 

"  You  mean  he  stood  you  as  long  as  he 
could." 

"You  naughty   thing — why  don't  you 
sympathize  with  me  ?  " 
237 


/IbaDame  ©c  Stael 

Then  both  women  fall  into  a  laughing 
fit  that  is  interrupted  by  the  servant  who 
announces  Benjamin  Constant. 

Constant  came  as  near  winning  the  love 
of  Madame  De  Stael  as  any  man  ever  did. 
He  was  politician,  scholar,  writer,  orator, 
courtier.  But  with  it  all  he  was  a  boor, 
for  when  he  had  won  the  favor  of  Madame 
De  Stael  he  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Madame 
Charriere  with  whom  he  had  lived  for 
several  years  in  the  greatest  intimacy, 
giving  reasons  why  he  had  forsaken  her 
and  ending  with  an  ecstacy  in  praise  of 
the  Stael. 

If  a  man  can  do  a  thing  more  brutal  than 
to  humiliate  one  woman  at  the  expense 
of  another  I  do  not  know  it.  And  with- 
out entering  any  defence  for  the  men  who 
love  several  women  at  one  time,  I  wish 
to  make  a  clear  distinction  between  the 
men  who  bully  and  brutalize  women  for 
their  own  gratification  and  the  men  who 
find  their  highest  pleasure  in  pleasing 
women.  The  latter  may  not  be  a  paragon, 
yet  as  his  desire  is  to  give  pleasure  not 
238 


/Ifta&ame  2>e  Stael 

corral  it,  he  is  a  totally  different  being 
from  the  man  who  deceives,  badgers, 
humiliates,  and  quarrels  with  one  who 
cannot  defend  herself,  in  order  that  he 
may  find  an  excuse  for  leaving  her. 

A  good  many  of  Constant's  speeches 
were  written  by  Madame  De  Stael  and 
when  they  travelled  together  through  Ger- 
many he  no  doubt  was  a  great  help  to  her 
in  preparing  the  De  V Allemagne . 

But  there  was  a  little  man  approaching 
from  out  the  mist  of  obscurity  who  was  to 
play  an  important  part  in  the  life  of 
Madame  De  Stael.  He  had  heard  of  her 
wide-reaching  influence  and  such  an 
influence  he  could  not  afford  to  forego — 
it  must  be  used  to  further  his  ends. 

Yet  the  First  Consul  did  not  call  on  her, 
and  she  did  not  call  on  the  First  Consul. 
They  played  a  waiting  game.  "If  he 
wishes  to  see  me  he  knows  that  I  am 
home  Thursdays  !  "  she  said  with  a  shrug. 

"  Yes,  but  a  man  in  his  position  re- 
verses the  usual  order,  he  does  not  make 
the  first  call !  " 

239 


dfcafcame  S>c  Stael 


"Evidently!"  said  Madame,  and  the 
subject  dropped  with  a  dull  thud. 

Word  came  from  somewhere  that  Baron 
De  Stael  was  severely  ill.  The  wife  was 
thrown  into  a  tumult  of  emotion.  She 
must  go  to  him  at  once — a  wife's  duty 
was  to  her  husband  first  of  all.  She  left 
everything  and,  hastening  to  his  bedside, 
there  ministered  to  him  tenderly.  But 
death  claimed  him. 

The  widow  returned  to  Paris  clothed 
in  deep  mourning.  Crepe  was  tied  on 
the  door  knocker  and  the  salon  was 
closed. 

The  First  Consul  sent  condolences. 

"The  First  Consul  is  a  joker,"  said 
Dannion  solemnly  and  took  snuff. 

In  six  weeks  the  salon  was  again  opened. 
Not  long  after,  at  a  dinner,  Napoleon  and 
Madame  De  Stael  sat  side  by  side.  "Your 
father  was  a  great  man,"  said  Napoleon. 

He  had  gotten  in  the  first  compliment 
when  she  had  planned  otherwise.  She 
intended  to  march  her  charms  in  a  pha- 
lanx upon  him,  but  he  would  not  have  it 
240 


.flfcafcamc  2>e  Stael 


so.  Her  wit  fell  flat  and  her  prettiest 
smile  only  brought  the  remark,  "  If  the 
wind  veers  north  it  may  rain." 

They  were  rivals — that  was  the  trouble  ; 
France  was  not  big  enough  for  both. 

The  Madame's  book  about  Germany 
had  been  duly  announced,  puffed,  printed. 
Ten  thousand  copies  were  issued  and — 
seized  upon  by  Napoleon's  agents  and 
burned. 

"The  edition  is  exhausted,"  cried 
Madame  as  she  smiled  through  her  tears 
and  searched  for  her  pocket  handker- 
chief. 

The  trouble  with  the  book  was  that  no- 
where in  it  was  Napoleon  mentioned. 
Had  Napoleon  never  noticed  the  book 
the  author  would  have  been  wofully 
sorry.  As  it  was  she  was  pleased,  and 
when  the  last  guest  had  gone  she  and 
Benjamin  Constant  laughed,  shook  hands, 
and  ordered  lunch. 

But  it  was  not  so  funny  when  Fouche 
called,  apologized,  coughed,  and  said  the 
air  in  Paris  was  bad. 
341 


Aatame  Be  Stael 


So  Madame  De  Stael  had  to  go — it  was 
Ten  Years  of  Exile.  In  that  book  you 
can  read  all  about  it.  She  retired  to 
Coppet,  and  all  the  griefs,  persecutions, 
disappointments,  and  heart-aches  were 
doubtless  softened  by  the  inward  thought 
of  the  distinction  that  was  hers  in  being 
the  first  woman  banished  by  Napoleon 
and  of  being  the  only  woman  he  thor- 
oughly feared. 

When  it  came  Napoleon's  turn  to  go 
and  the  departure  for  Elba  was  at  hand, 
it  will  be  remembered  he  bade  good-bye 
personally  to  those  who  had  served  him 
so  faithfully.  It  was  an  affecting  scene 
when  he  kissed  his  generals  and  saluted 
the  swarthy  grenadiers  in  the  same  way. 
When  told  of  it  Madame  picked  a  petal 
or  two  from  her  bouquet  and  remarked  : 
"  You  see,  my  dears,  the  difference  is  this, 
while  Judas  kissed  but  one  the  Little 
Man  kissed  forty.     .     .     ." 

Napoleon  was  scarcely  out  of  France 
before  Madame  was  back  in  Paris  with 
all  her  books  and  wit  and  beauty.  An 
242 


Aatatne  ©c  Staei 


ovation  was  given  the  daughter  of  Nec- 
ker  such  as  Paris  alone  can  give. 

But  Napoleon  did  not  stay  at  Elba,  at 
least  not  according  to  any  accounts  I  have 
read. 

When  word  came  that  he  was  marching 
upon  Paris,  Madame  hastily  packed  up 
her  MSS.  and  started  in  hot  haste  for 
Coppet. 

But  when  the  eighty  days  had  passed 
and  the  bugaboo  was  safely  on  board  the 
Bellerophon  she  came  back  to  the  scenes 
she  loved  so  well  and  to  what  for  her  was 
the  only  heaven — Paris. 

She  has  been  called  a  philosopher  and 
a  literary  light.  But  she  was  only  socio- 
literary.  Her  written  philosophy  does 
not  represent  the  things  she  felt  were 
true — simply  those  things  she  thought  it 
would  be  nice  to  say.  She  cultivated 
literature  only  that  she  might  shine. 
Love,  wealth,  health,  husband,  children 
— all  were  sacrificed  that  she  might  lead 
society  and  win  applause.  No  one  ever 
feared  solitude  more  ;  she  must  have  those 
243 


/ifcaDame  2)e  Stael 


about  her  who  would  minister  to  her  van- 
ity and  upon  whom  she  could  shower  her 
wit.  As  a  type  her  life  is  valuable,  and  in 
these  pages  that  traverse  the  entire  circle 
of  feminine  virtues  and  foibles  she  surely 
must  have  a  place. 

In  her  last  illness  she  was  attended 
daily  by  those  faithful  subjects  who  had 
all  along  recognized  her  sovereignty — in 
Society  she  was  Queen.  She  surely  won 
her  heart's  desire,  for  to  that  bed  from 
which  she  was  no  more  to  rise  courtiers 
came  and  kneeling  kissed  her  hand  and 
women  by  the  score  whom  she  had  be- 
friended paid  her  the  tribute  of  their 
tears. 

She  died  in  Paris  aged  fifty-one. 


244 


IV. 

WHEN  you  are  in  Switzerland 
and  take  the  little  steamer 
that  plies  on  Lake  Leman 
from  Iwausanne  to  Geneva,  you  will  see 
on  the  western  shore  a  tiny  village  that 
clings  close  around  a  chateau,  like  little 
oysters  around  the  parent  shell.  This 
is  the  village  of  Coppet  that  you  behold, 
and  the  central  building  that  seems  to 
be  a  part  of  the  very  landscape  is  the 
Chateau  de  Necker.  This  was  the  home 
of  Madame  De  Stael  and  the  place  where 
so  many  refugees  sought  safety.  "  Cop- 
pet  is  hell  in  motion,"  said  Napoleon. 
"  The  woman  who  lives  there  has  a  pet- 
ticoat full  of  arrows  that  could  hit  a  man 
were  he  seated  on  a  rainbow.  She  com- 
bines in  her  active  head  and  strong 
heart  Rousseau  and  Mirabeau  ;  and  then 
245 


dfcadame  De  Stael 


shields  herself  behind  a  shift  and  screams 
if  you  approach.  To  attract  attention  to 
herself  she  calls,  '  Help,  help  ! '  " 

The  man  who  voiced  these  words  was 
surely  fit  rival  to  the  chatelaine  of  this 
vine-covered  place  of  peace  that  lies 
smiling  an  ironical  smile  in  the  sunshine 
on  yonder  hillside. 

Coppet  bristles  with  history. 

Could  Coppet  speak  it  must  tell  of 
Voltaire  and  Rousseau  who  had  knocked 
at  its  gates  ;  of  John  Calvin  ;  of  Mont- 
morency ;  of  Hautville  (for  whom  Victor 
Hugo  named  a  chateau)  ;  of  Fanny  Bur- 
ney  and  Madame  Recamier  and  Girardin 
(pupil  of  Rousseau)  and  Lafayette  and 
hosts  of  others  who  are  to  us  but  names, 
but  who  in  their  day  were  greatest  among 
all  the  sons  of  men. 

Chief  of  all  was  the  great  Necker,  who 
himself  planned  and  built  the  main  edi- 
fice that  his  daughter  "  might  ever  call  it 
home."  Little  did  he  know  that  it  would 
serve  as  her  prison,  and  that  from  here 
she  would  have  to  steal  away  in  dis- 
246 


/Ifcaframe  ©e  Stael 


guise.  But  yet  it  was  the  place  she  called 
home  for  full  two  decades.  Here  she 
wrote  and  wept  and  laughed  and  sang  : 
hating  the  place  when  here,  loving  it 
when  away.  Here  she  came  when  De 
Stael  had  died,  and  here  she  brought  her^ 
children.  Here  she  received  the  caresses 
of  Benjamin  Constant,  and  here  she  won 
the  love  of  pale,  handsome  Rocco,  and 
here,  "when  past  age,"  gave  birth  to 
his  child.  Here  and  in  Paris,  in  quick 
turn,  the  tragedy  and  comedy  of  her  life 
were  played  ;  and  here  she  sleeps. 

In  the  tourist  season  there  are  many 
visitors  at  the  chateau.  A  grave  old 
soldier,  wearing  on  his  breast  the  Cross 
of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  meets  you  at 
the  lodge  and  conducts  you  through  the 
halls,  the  salon,  and  library.  There  are 
many  family  portraits,  and  mementos 
without  number,  to  bring  back  the  past 
that  is  gone  forever.  Inscribed  copies 
of  books  from  Goethe  and  Schiller  and 
Schlegel  and  Byron  are  in  the  cases,  and 
on  the  walls  are  to  be  seen  pictures  of 
247 


dfcaoame  De  Stael 

Necker,  Rocco,  De  Stael,  and  Albert  the 
first-born  son,  decapitated  in  a  duel  by  a 
swinging  stroke  from  a  German  sabre 
on  account  of  a  king  and  two  aces  held 
in  his  sleeve. 

Beneath  the  old  chateau  dances  a 
mountain  brook,  cold  from  the  Jura  ;  in 
the  great  courtway  is  a  fountain  and  fish- 
pond, and  all  around  are  flowering  plants 
and  stately  palms.  All  is  quiet  and  or- 
derly. No  children  play,  no  merry  voices 
call,  no  glad  laughter  echoes  through 
these  courts.  Even  the  birds  have  ceased 
to  sing. 

The  quaint  chairs  in  the  parlors  are 
pushed  back  with  precision  against  the 
wall,  and  the  funereal  silence  that  reigns 
supreme  seems  to  say  that  death  yester- 
day came,  and  an  hour  ago  all  the  in- 
mates of  the  gloomy  mansion,  save  the 
old  soldier,  followed  the  hearse  afar  and 
have  not  yet  returned. 

We  are  conducted  out  through  the  gar 
den,  along  gravel  walks,  across  the  well- 
trimmed  lawn,  and  before  a  high  iron 
248 


Aadame  2>e  staei 


gate,  walled  in  on  both  sides  with  mas- 
sive masonry,  the  old  soldier  stops,  and 
removes  his  cap.  Standing  with  heads 
uncovered,  we  are  told  that  within  rests 
the  dust  of  Madame  De  Stael,  her  par- 
ents, her  children,  and  her  children's 
children — four  generations  in  all. 

The  steamer  whistles  at  the  wharf  as 
if  to  bring  us  back  from  dreams  and 
mould  and  death,  and  we  hasten  away, 
walking  needlessly  fast,  looking  back 
furtively  to  see  if  grim  spectral  shapes 
are  following  after.  None  are  seen,  but 
we  do  not  breathe  freely  until  aboard  the 
steamer  and  two  short  whistles  are  heard, 
and  the  order  is  given  to  cast  off. 

We  push  off  slowly  from  the  stone  pier, 
and  all  is  safe. 


*49 


ELIZABETH  FRY 


251 


When  thee  builds  a  prison,  thee  had  better 
build  with  the  thought  ever  in  thy  mind  that 
thee  and  thy  children  may  occupy  the  cells. 
— Report  on  Paris  Prisons,  Addressed  to  the  King 
of  France. 


7^1 


S-^c^  ••   fi<^y 


ELIZABETH   FRY. 
i. 

THE  Mennonite,  Dunkard,  Shaker, 
Oneida  Communist,  Mormon,  and 
Quaker  are  all  one  people,  varying 
only   according   to   environment.      They 
are  all  Come-outers. 

They  turn  to  plain  clothes,  hard  work, 
religious  thought,  eschewing  the  pomps 
and  vanities  of  the  world,— all  for  the 
same  reasons.  Scratch  anyone  of  them 
and  you  will  find  the  true  type.  The 
monk  of  the  Middle  Ages  was  the  same 
man  ;  his  peculiarity  being  an  extreme 
asceticism  that  caused  him  to  count  sex 
a  mistake  on  the  part  of  God.  And  this 
same  question  has  been  a  stumbling-block 
for  ages  to  the  type  we  now  have  under 
the  glass.  A  man  who  gives  the  question 
of  sex  too  much  attention  is  very  apt 
253 


EIl3abetb  3fn? 


either  to  have  no  wife  at  all  or  else  four 
or  five.  If  a  Franciscan  friar  of  the  olden 
time  happened  to  glance  at  a  clothes  line 
on  which,  gaily  waving  in  the  wanton 
winds,  was  a  smock  frock,  he  wore  peas 
in  his  sandals  for  a  month  and  a   day. 

The  Shaker  does  not  count  women  out 
because  the  founder  of  the  sect  was  a 
woman,  but  he  is  a  complete  celibate  and 
depends  on  Gentiles  to  populate  the  earth. 
The  Dunkard  quotes  St.  Paul  and  marries 
because  he  must,  but  regards  romantic 
love  as  a  thing  of  which  Deity  is  jealous, 
and  also  a  bit  ashamed.  The  Oneida  Com- 
munity clung  to  the  same  thought,  and 
to  obliterate  selfishness  held  women  in 
common,  tracing  pedigree  after  the  man- 
ner of  ancient  Sparta,  through  the  female 
line,  because  there  was  no  other  way. 
The  Mormon  incidentally  and  accident- 
ally adopted  polygamy. 

The  Quakers  have   for  the  best    part 

looked  with  disfavor  on  passionate  love. 

In   the  worship  of  Deity  they  separate 

women   from  men.     But  all  oscillations 

254 


J6[t3abetb  jfn> 


are  equalized  by  swingings  to  the  other 
side.  The  Quakers  have  often  discarded 
a  distinctive  marriage  ceremony,  thus 
slanting  toward  natural  selection.  And 
I  might  tell  you  of  .how  in  one  of  the 
South  American  states  there  is  a  band 
of  Friends  who  have  discarded  the  rite 
entirely,  making  marriage  a  private  and 
personal  contract  between  the  man  and 
woman — a  sacred  matter  of  conscience ; 
and  should  the  man  and  woman  find  after 
a  trial  that  their  mating  was  a  mistake 
they  are  as  free  to  separate  as  they  were 
to  marry,  and  no  obloquy  is  attached  in 
any  event.  Harriet  Martineau,  Quaker 
in  sympathy,  although  not  in  name,  be- 
ing an  independent  fighter  armed  with  a 
long  squirrel  rifle  of  marvellous  range  and 
accuracy,  pleaded  strongly  and  boldly  for 
a  law  that  would  make  divorce  as  free  and 
simple  as  marriage.  Harriet  once  called 
marriage  a  mouse-trap,  and  thereby  sent 
shivers  of  surprise  and  indignation  up  a 
bishop's  back. 

But  there  is  one  thing  among  all  these 
255 


Elt3abetb  jft£ 


quasi-ascetic  sects  that  has  ever  been  in 
advance  of  the  great  mass  of  humanity 
from  which  they  are  detached  parts :  they 
have  given  woman  her  rights,  whereas, 
the  mass  has  always  prated,  and  does 
yet,  mentioning  it  in  statute  law,  that  the 
male  has  certain  natural  "rights,"  and 
the  women  only  such  rights  as  are  granted 
her  by  the  males.  And  the  reason  of  this 
wrong-headed  attitude  on  part  of  the  mob 
is  plain.  It  rules  by  force,  whereas  the 
semi-ascetic  sects  decry  force,  using  only 
moral  suasion ,  falling  back  on  the  Christ 
doctrine  of  non-resistance.  This  has 
given  their  women  a  chance  to  prove  that 
they  have  just  as  able  minds  as  men,  if 
not  better. 

That  these  non-resistants  are  the  salt  of 
the  earth  none  who  know  them  can  deny. 
It  was  the  residents  of  the  monasteries  in 
the  Middle  Ages  who  kept  learning  and 
art  from  dying  off  the  face  of  Europe. 
They  built  such  churches  and  performed 
such  splendid  work  in  art  that  we  are 
hushed  into  silence  before  the  dignity  of 
256 


Bltsabetb  jfr» 


the  ruins  of  Melrose,  Dryburgh,  and  Fur- 
ness.  There  are  no  paupers  among  the 
Quakers,  a  "  criminal  class  "  is  a  thing 
no  Mennonite  understands,  no  Dunkard 
is  a  drunkard,  the  Oneida  Communists 
were  all  well  educated  and  in  dollars 
passing  rich,  while  the  Mormons  have 
accumulated  wealth  at  the  rate  of  over 
eleven  hundred  dollars  a  man  per  year 
which  is  more  than  three  times  as  good  a 
record  as  can  be  shown  by  New  York  or 
Pennsylvania.  And  further :  until  the 
Gentiles  bore  down  upon  her,  Utah  had 
no  use  for  either  prisons,  asylums,  or 
almshouses.  Until  the  Gentiles  crowded 
into  Salt  Lake  City  there  was  no  "  tender- 
loin district,"  no  "  dangerous  class,"  no 
gambling  "  dives."  Instead,  there  was 
universal  order,  industry,  sobriety.  It  is 
well  to  recognize  the  fact  that  the  quasi- 
ascetic,  possessed  of  a  religious  idea,  per- 
secuted to  a  point  that  holds  him  to  his 
work,  is  the  best  type  of  citizen  the  world 
has  ever  known.  Tobacco,  strong  drink, 
and  opium  alternately  lull  and  excite, 
257 


jeit3abetb  ffrg 


soothe  and  elevate,  but  always  destroy  ; 
yet  they  do  not  destroy  our  ascetic  for  he 
knows  them  not.  He  does  not  deplete 
himself  by  drugs,  rivalry,  strife,  or  anger. 
He  believes  in  co-operation  not  competi- 
tion. He  works  and  prays.  He  keeps  a 
good  digestion,  an  even  pulse,  a  clear 
conscience  ;  and  as  man's  true  wants  are 
very  few,  our  subject  grows  rich  and  has 
not  only  ample  supplies  for  himself  but 
is  enabled  to  minister  to  others.  He  is 
earth's  good  Samaritan.  It  was  Tolstoi 
and  his  daughter  who  started  soup-houses 
in  Russia  and  kept  famine  at  bay.  Your 
true  monk  never  passed  by  on  the  other 
side  ;  ah  no  !  the  business  of  the  old- 
time  priest  was  to  do  good.  The  Quaker 
is  his  best  descendant — he  is  the  true 
philanthropist. 

If  jeered  and  hooted  and  finally  op- 
pressed, these  protesters  will  form  a  clan 
or  sect  and  adopt  a  distinctive  garb  and 
speech.  If  persecuted,  they  will  hold  to- 
gether, as  cattle  on  the  prairies  huddle 
against  the  storm.  But  if  left  alone  the 
25S 


J£lt3abetb  ffrg 


Law  of  Reversion  to  Type  catches  the 
second  generation,  and  the  young  men 
and  maidens  secrete  millinery,  just  a* 
birds  do  a  brilliant  plumage,  and  the 
strange  sect  merges  into  and  is  lost  in  the 
mass.  The  Jews  did  not  say,  Go  to,  we 
will  be  peculiar,  but,  as  Mr.  Zaugwill  has 
stated,  they  have  remained  a  peculiar 
people  simply  because  they  have  been 
proscribed . 

The  successful  monk,  grown  rich  and 
feeling  secure,  turns  voluptuary  and  be- 
comes the  very  tiling  that  he  renounced 
in  his  monastic  vows.  Over-anxious 
bicyclists  run  into  the  object  they  wish 
to  avoid.  We  are  attracted  to  the  thing 
we  despise ;  and  we  despise  it  because  it 
attracts.  A  recognition  of  this  principle 
will  make  plain  why  so  many  temperance 
fanatics  are  really  drunkards  trying  hard 
to  keep  sober.  In  us  all  is  the  germ  of 
the  thing  we  hate ;  we  become  like  the 
thing  we  hate  ;  we  are  the  thing  we  hate. 
Ex-Quakers  in  Philadelphia,  I  am  told, 
are  very  dressy  people.  But  before  a 
259 


£li3abetb  tfrg 


woman  becomes  a  genuine  admitted  non- 
Quaker,  the  rough  gray  woollen  dress 
shades  off  by  almost  imperceptible  de- 
grees into  a  dainty  silken  lilac,  whose 
generous  folds  have  a  most  peculiar  and 
seductive  rustle ;  the  bonnet  becomes 
smaller,  and  pertly  assumes  a  becoming 
ruche,  from  under  which  steal  forth  dar- 
ing winsome  ringlets,  while  at  the  neck, 
purest  of  cream-white  kerchiefs  jealously 
conceal  the  charms  that  a  mere  worldly 
woman  might  reveal.  Then  the  demi- 
monde, finding  themselves  neglected, 
bribe  the  dressmakers  and  adopt  the 
costume. 

Thus  does  civilization,  like  the  cyclone, 
move  in  spirals. 


260 


II. 


IN  a  sermou  preached  at  the  City  Tem- 
ple, June  18,  1896,  Doctor  Joseph  Par- 
ker said:  "There  it  was — there!  at 
Sniithfield  Market,  a  stone's  throw  from 
here,  that  Ridley  and  Latimer  were 
burned.  Over  this  spot  the  smoke  of 
martyr  fires  hovered.  And  I  pray  for  a 
time  when  they  will  hover  again.  Aye, 
that  is  what  we  need  !  the  rack,  the  gal- 
lows, chains,  dungeons,  fagots  !  " 

Yes,  those  are  his  words,  and  it  was  two 
days  before  it  came  to  me  that  Dr.  Parker 
knew  just  what  he  was  talking  about. 
Persecution  cannot  stamp  out  virtue  any 
more  than  man's  effort  can  obliterate 
matter.  Man  changes  the  form  of  things 
but  he  does  not  cancel  their  essence. 
And  this  is  as  true  of  the  unseen  attrib- 
utes of  spirit  as  it  is  of  the  elements  of 
261 


Blisabetb  JFrg 


matter.  Did  the  truths  taught  by  Lati- 
mer and  Ridley  go  out  with  the  flames 
that  crackled  about  their  limbs  ?  and 
were  their  names  written  for  the  last  time 
in  smoke  ?  '  T  were  vain  to  ask.  The 
bishop,  who  instigated  their  persecution, 
gave  them  certificates  for  immortality. 
But  the  bishop  did  not  know  it — bishops 
who  persecute  know  not  what  they  do. 

Let  us  guess  the  result  if  Jesus  had  been 
eminently  successful,  gathering  about 
him,  with  the  years,  the  strong  and  influ- 
ential men  of  Jerusalem  !  Suppose  he 
had  fallen  asleep  at  last  of  old  age,  and, 
full  of  honors,  been  carried  to  his  own 
tomb  patterned  after  that  of  Joseph  of 
Arimathea,  but  richer  far — what  then  ! 
And  if  Socrates  had  apologized  and  had 
not  drunk  of  the  hemlock,  how  about  his 
philosophy  ?  and  would  Plato  have  writ- 
ten the  Phcedo  ? 

No  religion  is  pure  except  in  its  state  of 

poverty  and  persecution  ;  the  good  things 

of  earth  are  our  corrupters.    All  life  is  from 

the  sun,  but  fruit  too  well  loved  of  the 

262 


Bli3abetb  #r£ 


sun  falls  first  and  rots.  The  religion  that 
is  fostered  by  the  state  and  upheld  by  a 
standing  army  may  be  a  pretty  good  relig- 
ion, bnt  it  is  not  the  Christ  religion,  call 
you  it  "Christianity  "  never  so  loudly. 

Martyr  and  persecutor  are  usually  cut 
off  the  same  piece.  They  are  the  same 
type  of  man  ;  and  looking  down  the  cen- 
turies they  seem  to  have  shifted  places 
easily.  As  to  which  is  persecutor  and 
which  is  martyr  is  only  a  question  of  tran- 
sient power.  They  are  constantly  teach- 
ing the  trick  to  each  other,  just  as  scolding 
parents  have  saucy  children.  They  are 
both  good  people  ;  their  sincerity  cannot 
be  doubted.  Marcus  Aurelius,  the  best 
emperor  Rome  ever  had,  persecuted  the 
Christians  ;  while  Caligula,  Rome's  worst 
emperor,  didn't  know  there  were  any 
Christians  in  his  dominion,  and  if  he- had 
known  would  not  have  cared. 

The  persecutor  and  martyr  both  be- 
long to  the  cultus  known  as  "  Muscular 
Christianity,"  the  distinguishing  feature 
of  which  is  a  final  appeal  to  force.  We 
263 


JSli3abetb  jfrs 


should  respect  it  for  the  frankness  of  the 
name  in  which  it  delights — Muscular 
Christianity  being  a  totally  different 
thing  from  Christianity,  which  smitten 
turns  the  other  cheek. 

But  the  Quaker,  best  type  of  the  non- 
resistant  quasi-ascetic,  is  the  exception 
that  proves  the  rule  ;  he  may  be  perse- 
cuted, but  he  persecutes  not  again.  He 
is  the  best  authenticated  type  living  of 
primitive  Christian.  That  the  religion  of 
Jesus  was  a  purely  reactionary  movement, 
suggested  by  the  smug  complacency  and 
voluptuous  condition  of  the  times,  most 
thinking  men  agree.  Where  rich  Phar- 
isees adopt  a  standard  of  life  that  can 
only  be  maintained  by  devouring  widows' 
houses  and  oppressing  the  orphan,  the 
needs  of  the  hour  bring  to  the  front  a  man 
who  will  swing  the  pendulum  to  the  other 
side.  When  society  plays  tennis  with 
truth,  and  pitch  and  toss  with  all  the  ex- 
pressions of  love  and  friendship,  certain 
ones  will  confine  their  speech  to  yea,  yea, 
and  nay,  nay.  When  men  utter  loud 
264 


BItjabetb  fxy 


prayers  on  street  corners,  someone  will 
suggest  that  the  better  way  to  pray  is  to 
retire  to  your  closet  and  shut  the  door. 
When  self  appointed  rulers  wear  purple 
and  scarlet  and  make  broad  their  phylac- 
teries, someone  will  suggest  that  honest 
men  had  better  adopt  a  simplicity  of  attire. 
When  a  whole  nation  grows  mad  in  its  hot 
endeavor  to  become  rich  and  the  Temple 
of  the  Most  High  is  cumbered  by  the  seats 
of  money  changers,  already  in  some  Gali- 
lean village  sits  a  youth,  conscious  of  his 
Divine  kinship,  plaiting  a  scourge  of 
cords. 

The  gray  garb  of  the  Quaker  is  only  a 
revulsion  from  a  flutter  of  ribbons  and  a 
towering  headgear  of  hues  that  shame  the 
lily  and  rival  the  rainbow.  Beau  Brum- 
mel,  lifting  his  hat  with  great  flourish  to 
nobility  and  standing  hatless  in  the  pres- 
ence of  illustrious  nobodies,  finds  his 
counterpart  in  William  Penn,  who  was 
horn  with  his  hat  on  and  uncovers  to  no 
one.  The  height  of  Brummel's  hat  finds 
place  in  the  width  of  Penn's. 
265 


J£li3abetb  $vy 


Quakerism  is  a  protest  against  an  idle, 
vain,  voluptuous,  and  selfish  life.  It  is 
the  natural  recoil  from  insincerity,  vanity, 
and  gormandism  which,  growing  glar- 
ingly offensive,  causes  these  certain  men 
and  women  to  "come-out"  and  stand 
firm  for  plain  living  and  high  thinking. 
And  were  it  not  for  this  divine  principle 
in  humanity  that  prompts  individuals  to 
separate  from  the  mass  when  sensuality 
threatens  to  hold  supreme  sway,  the  race 
would  be  snuffed  out  in  hopeless  night. 
These  men  who  come  out  effect  their  mis- 
sion, not  by  making  all  men  Come-outers, 
but  by  imperceptibly  changing  the  com- 
plexion of  the  mass.  They  are  the  true 
and  literal  Saviours  of  mankind. 


266 


III. 

NORWICH  has  several  things  to  re- 
commend it  to  the  tourist,  chief 
of  which  is  the  cathedral.  Great 
massive,  sullen  structure — begun  in  the 
Eleventh  Century — it  adheres  more 
closely  to  its  Norman  type  than  any 
other  building  in  England. 

Within  sound  of  the  tolling  bells  of  this 
great  cathedral,  aye,  almost  within  the 
shadow  of  its  turrets,  was  born,  in  1780, 
Elizabeth  Gurney.  Her  line  of  ancestry 
traced  directly  back  to  the  de  Gournays 
who  came  with  William  the  Conqueror, 
and  laid  the  foundations  of  this  church 
and  England's  civilization.  To  the  sens- 
itive, imaginative  girl  this  sacred  temple, 
replete  with  history,  fading  off  into 
storied  song  and  curious  legend,  meant 
much.  She  hauuted  its  solemn  transepts, 
267 


Blijabetb  ffrg 


and  followed  with  eager  eyes  the  carved 
bosses  ou  the  ceiling,  to  see  if  the  cherubs 
pictured  there  were  really  alive.  She 
took  children  from  the  street  and  con- 
ducted them  thither,  explaining  that  it 
was  her  grandfather  who  laid  the  mortar 
between  the  stones  and  reared  the  walls 
and  placed  the  splendid  colored  windows, 
on  which  reflections  of  real  angels  were 
to  be  seen  and  where  Madonnas  winked 
when  the  wind  was  east.  And  the  chil- 
dren listened  with  open  mouths  and  mar- 
velled much,  and  this  encouraged  the  pale 
little  girl  with  the  wondering  eyes,  and 
she  led  them  to  the  tomb  of  Sir  William 
Boleyn,  whose  granddaughter,  Anne 
Boleyn,  used  often  to  come  here  and  gar- 
laud  with  flowers  the  grave  above  which 
our  toddlers  talked  in  whispers,  and 
where,  yesterday,  I  too  stood. 

And  so  Elizabeth  grew  in  years  and 
in  stature  and  in  understanding ;  and 
although  her  parents  were  not  members 
of  the  Established  Religion ,  yet  a  great 
cathedral  is  greater  than  sect,  and  to  her 
268 


it  was  the  true  House  of  Prayer.  It  was 
there  that  God  listened  to  the  prayers  of 
His  children.  She  loved  the  place  with 
an  idolatrous  love  and  with  all  the  splen- 
did superstition  of  a  child,  and  thither 
she  went  to  kneel  and  ask  fulfilment  of 
her  heart's  desire.  All  the  beauties  of 
ancient  and  innocent  days  moved  radiant 
and  luminous  in  the  azure  of  her  mind. 
But  time  crept  on  and  a  woman's  pene- 
trating comprehension  came  to  her,  and 
the  dreams  of  youth  shifted  off  into  the 
realities  of  maturity,  and  she  saw  that 
many  who  came  to  pray  were  careless, 
frivolous  people,  and  that  the  vergers  did 
their  work  without  more  reverence  than 
did  the  stablemen  who  cared  for  her 
father's  horses.  And  once  when  twilight 
was  veiling  the  choir,  and  all  of  the  wor- 
shippers had  departed,  she  saw  a  curate 
strike  a  match  on  the  cloister  wall,  to 
light  his  pipe,  and  then  with  the  rector 
laugh  loudly,  because  the  bishop  had  for- 
gotten and  read  his  Te  Deum  Laudamus 
before  his  Gloria  in  Bxcelsis. 
269 


Bli3at»etb  jfig 


By  degrees  it  came  to  her  that  the  lord 
bishop  of  this  holy  place  was  in  the  em- 
ploy of  the  state,  and  that  the  state 
was  master  too  of  the  army  and  the 
police  and  the  ships  that  sailed  away 
to  New  Zealand,  carrying  in  their  holds 
women  and  children,  who  never  came 
back,  and  men  who,  like  the  lord  bishop, 
had  forgotten  this  and  done  that  when 
they  should  have  done  the  other. 

Once  in  the  streets  of  Norwich  she  saw 
a  dozen  men  with  fetters  rivetted  to  their 
legs,  all  fastened  to  one  clanking  chain, 
breaking  stone  in  the  drizzle  of  a  winter 
rain.  And  the  thought  came  to  her  that 
the  rich  ladies,  wrapped  in  furs,  who 
rolled  by  in  their  carriages,  going  to  the 
cathedral  to  pray,  were  no  more  God's 
children  than  these  wretches  breaking 
stone  from  the  darkness  of  a  winter 
morning  until  darkness  settled  over  the 
earth  again  at  night. 

She  saw  plainly  the  patent  truth  that 
if  some  people  wore  gaudy  and  costly 
raiment,  others  must  dress  in  rags  ;  if 
270 


some  ate  and  drank  more  than  they 
needed,  and  wasted  the  good  things  of 
earth,  others  must  go  hungry  ;  if  some 
never  worked  with  their  hands,  others 
must  needs  toil  continuously. 

The  Gurneys  were  nominally  Friends, 
but  they  had  gradually  slipped  away  from 
the  directness  of  speech,  the  plainness  of 
dress,  and  the  simplicity  of  the  Quakers. 
They  were  getting  rich  on  government 
contracts — and  who  wants  to  be  ridiculous 
anyway?  So,  with  consternation,  the 
father  and  mother  heard  the  avowal  of 
Elizabeth  to  adopt  the  extreme  customs 
of  the  Friends.  They  sought  to  dissuade 
her.  They  pointed  out  the  uselessness  of 
being  singular,  and  the  folly  of  adopting 
a  mode  of  life  that  makes  you  a  laughing- 
stock. But  this  eighteen-year-old  girl 
stood  firm.  She  had  resolved  to  live  the 
Christ-life  and  devote  her  energies  to  les- 
sening the  pains  of  earth.  Life  was  too 
short  for  frivolity  ;  no  one  could  afford  to 
compromise  with  evil.  %She  became  the 
friend  of  children  ;  the  champion  of  the 
271 


Bli3abetb  jfrg 


unfortunate  ;  she  sided  with  the  weak ; 
she  was  their  friend  and  comforter.  Her 
life  became  a  cry  in  favor  of  the  op- 
pressed, a  defence  of  the  down-trodden, 
an  exaltation  of  self-devotion,  a  prayer 
for  universal  sympathy,  liberty,  and  light. 
She  pleaded  for  the  vicious,  recognizing 
that  all  are  sinners  and  that  those  who  do 
unlawful  acts  are  no  more  sinners  in 
the  eyes  of  God  than  we  who  think 
them. 

The  religious  nature  and  sex-life  are 
closely  akiu.  The  woman  possessing  a 
high  religious  fervor  is  also  capable  of  a 
great  and  passionate  love.  But  the  Nor- 
wich Friends  did  not  believe  in  a  passion- 
ate love,  excepting  as  the  work  of  the 
devil.  Yet  this  they  knew,  that  marriage 
tames  a  woman  as  nothing  else  can. 
They  believed  in  religion  of  course,  but 
not  an  absorbing,  fanatical  religion ! 
Elizabeth  should  get  married — it  would 
cure  her  mental  maladies  :  exaltation  of 
spirit  in  a  girl  is  a  dangerous  thing  any-^ 
way.  Nothing  subdues  like  marriage. 
272 


Blisabetb  tfn? 


It  may  uot  be  generally  known,  but 
your  religious  ascetic  is  a  great  match- 
maker. In  all  religious  communities, 
especially  rural  communities,  men  who 
need  wives  need  not  advertise — there 
are  self-appointed  committees  of  old 
ladies  who  advise  and  look  after  such 
matters  closely.  The  immanence  of  sex 
becomes  vicarious,  and  that  which  once 
dwelt  in  the  flesh  is  now  a  thought :  like 
men-about-town,  whose  vices  finally  be- 
come simply  mental,  so  do  these  old 
ladies  carry  on  courtships  by  power  of 
attorney. 

And  so  the  old  ladies  found  a  worthy 
Quaker  man  who  would  make  a  good 
husband  for  Elizabeth.  The  man  was 
willing.  He  wrote  a  letter  to  her  from 
his  home  in  London,  addressing  it  to  her 
father.  The  letter  was  brief  and  business- 
like. It  described  himself  in  modest  but 
accurate  terms.  He  weighed  ten  stone 
and  was  five  feet  eight  inches  high  ;  he 
was  a  merchant  with  a  goodly  income; 
and  in  disposition  was  all  that  was  to  be 
273 


£U3abetb  $vy 


desired — at  least  he  said  so.  His  pedigree 
was  standard. 

The  Gurneys  looked  up  this  Mr.  Fry, 
merchant  of  London,  and  found  all  as 
stated.  He  checked  O.  K.  He  was  in- 
vited to  visit  at  Norwich  ;  he  came,  he 
saw,  and  was  conquered.  He  liked  Eliza- 
beth, and  Elizabeth  liked  him — she  surely 
did  or  she  would  never  have  married  him. 

Elizabeth  bore  him  twelve  children. 
Mr.  Fry  was  certainly  an  excellent  and 
amiable  man.  I  find  it  recorded,  "  he 
never  in  any  way  hampered  his  wife's 
philanthropic  work,"  and  with  this  testi- 
monial to  the  excellence  of  Mr.  Fry's 
character  we  will  excuse  him  from  these 
pages  and  speak  only  of  his  wife. 

Contrary  to  expectations,  Elizabeth  was 
not  tamed  by  marriage.  She  looked  after 
her  household  with  diligence  ;  but  instead 
of  confining  her  "  social  duties  "  to  fol- 
lowing hotly  after  those  in  station  above 
her,  she  sought  out  those  in  the  stratum 
beneath.  Soon  after  reaching  Loudon 
she  began  taking  long  walks  alone. 
374 


Blisabetb  tfrg 


watching  the  people,  especially  the  beg- 
gars. The  lowly  and  the  wretched  inter- 
ested her.  She  saw,  girl  though  she  was, 
that  beggardom  and  vice  were  twins. 

In  one  of  her  daily  walks,  she  noticed 
on  a  certain  corner  a  frowsled  woman 
holding  a  babe,  and  thrusting  out  a  grimy 
hand  for  alms,  telling  a  woful  tale  of  a 
dead  soldier  husband  to  each  passer  by. 
Elizabeth  stopped  and  talked  with  the 
woman.  As  the  day  was  cold,  she  took 
off  her  mittens  and  gave  them  to  the 
beggar,  and  went  her  way.  The  next 
day  she  again  saw  the  woman  on  the 
same  corner  and  again  talked  with  her, 
asking  to  see  the  baby  held  so  closely 
within  the.  tattered  shawl.  An  intuitive 
glance  (mother  herself  or  soon  to  be) 
told  her  that  this  sickly  babe  was  not  the 
child  of  the  woman  who  held  it.  She 
asked  questions  that  the  woman  evaded. 
Pressed  further,  the  beggar  grew  abus- 
ive, and  took  refuge  in  curses,  with  dire 
threats  of  violence.  Mrs.  Fry  withdrew, 
and  waiting  for  nightfall  followed  the 
275 


Bli3abetb  jfrg 


woman  :  down  a  winding  alley,  past 
rows  of  rotting  tenements,  into  a  cellar 
below  a  gin-shop.  There,  in  this  one 
squalid  room,  she  found  a  dozen  babies, 
all  tied  fast  in  cribs  or  chairs,  starving, 
or  dying  of  inattention.  The  woman, 
taken  by  surprise,  did  not  grow  violent 
this  time  :  she  fled,  and  Mrs.  Fry,  send- 
ing for  two  women  Friends,  took  charge 
of  the  sufferers. 

This  sub-cellar  nursery  opened  the 
eyes  of  Mrs.  Fry  to  the  grim  fact  that 
Fngland,  professing  to  be  Christian, 
building  costly  churches,  and  maintain- 
ing an  immense  army  of  paid  priests, 
was  essentially  barbaric.  She  set  herself 
to  the  task  of  doing  what  she  could  while 
life  lasted  to  lessen  the  horror  of  ignor- 
ance and  sin. 

Newgate  Prison  then  as  now  stood  in 
the  centre  of  the  city.  It  was  necessary 
to  have  it  in  a  conspicuous  place  so  that 
all  might  see  the  result  of  wrong  doing 
and  be  good.  Along  the  front  of  the 
prison  were  strong  iron  gratings  where 
276 


Elizabeth  ffrs 


the  prisoners  crowded  up  to  talk  with 
their  friends.  Through  these  gratings 
the  unhappy  wretches  called  to  strangers 
for  alms,  and  thrust  out  long  wooden 
spoons  for  contributions,  that  would  en- 
able them  to  pay  their  fines.  There  was 
a  woman's  department,  but  if  the  men's 
department  was  too  full  men  and  women 
were  herded  together. 

Mrs.  Fry  worked  for  her  sex,  so  of  these 
I  will  speak.  Women  who  had  children 
under  seven  years  of  age  took  them  to 
prison  with  them  ;  every  week  babes 
were  born  there,  so  at  one  time  in  the 
year  1826  we  find  there  were  one  hundred 
and  ninety  women  and  one  hundred  chil- 
dren in  Newgate.  There  was  no  bedding. 
No  clothing  was  supplied,  and  those  who 
had  no  friends  outside  to  supply  them 
clothing  were  naked  or  nearly  so,  and 
would  have  been  entirely  were  it  not  for 
that  spark  of  divinity  that  causes  the  most 
depraved  of  women  to  minister  to  each 
other.  Women  hate  only  their  successful 
rivals.  The  lowest  of  women  will  assist 
277 


Bli3abetb  jfrs 


each  other  when  there  is  a  dire  emerg- 
ency. 

In  this  pen,  awaiting  trial,  execution, 
or  transportation,  were  girls  of  twelve  to 
senile,  helpless  creatures  of  eighty.  All 
were  thrust  together.  Hardened  crim- 
inals, besotted  prostitutes,  maid-servants 
accused  of  stealing  thimbles,  married 
women  suspected  of  blasphemy,  pure- 
hearted,  brave-natured  girls  who  had 
run  away  from  brutal  parents  or  more 
brutal  husbands,  insane  persons, — all 
were  herded  together.  All  of  the  keep- 
ers were  men.  Patrolling  the  walls  were 
armed  guards  who  were  ordered  to  shoot 
all  who  tried  to  escape.  These  guards 
were  usually  on  good  terms  with  the 
women  prisoners — hobnobbing  at  will. 
When  the  mailed  hand  of  government 
had  once  thrust  these  women  behind 
iron  bars,  and  relieved  virtuous  society 
of  their  presence,  it  seemed  to  think  it 
had  done  its  duty.  Inside,  no  crime  was 
recognized  save  murder.  These  women 
fought,  overpowered  the  weak,  stole  from 
278 


Etijabetb  tfrg 


and  maltreated  each  other.  Sometimes 
certain  ones  would  combine  for  self- 
defence,  forming  factions.  Once  the 
governor  of  the  prison,  bewigged,  pow- 
dered, lace-befrilled,  ventured  pompously 
into  the  woman's  department  without  his 
usual  armed  guard  ;  fifty  hags  set  upon 
him.  In  a  twinkling  his  clothing  was 
torn  to  shreds  too  small  for  carpet  rags, 
and  in  two  minutes  by  the  sand-glass, 
when  he  got  back  to  the  bars,  lustily 
calling  for  help,  he  was  as  naked  as  a 
cherub,  even  if  not  so  innocent. 

Visitors  who  ventured  near  to  the  grat- 
ing were  often  asked  to  shake  hands,  and 
if  once  a  grip  was  gotten  upon  them  the 
man  was -drawn  up  close,  while  long  sin- 
ewy fingers  grabbed  his  watch,  handker- 
chief, neck-scarf,  or  hat — all  was  pulled 
into  the  den.  Sharp  nail-marks  on  the 
poor  fellow's  face  told  of  the  scrimmage, 
and  all  the  time  the  guards  on  the  walls 
and  the  spectators  roared  with  laughter. 
Oh,  it  was  awfully  funny  ! 

One  woman  whose  shawl  was  snatched 
279 


Blt3abetb  ffrg 


and  sucked  into  the  maelstrom  com- 
plained to  the  police,  and  was  told  that 
folks  inside  of  Newgate  could  not  be  ar- 
rested, and  that  a  good  motto  for  outsiders 
was  to  keep  away  from  dangerous  places. 

Every  morning  at  nine  a  curate  read 
prayers  at  the  prisoners.  The  curate 
stood  well  outside  the  grating ;  while  all 
the  time  from  inside  loud  cries  of  advice 
were  given  and  sundry  remarks  tendered 
him  concerning  his  personal  appear- 
ance. The  frightful  hilarity  of  the  mob 
saved  these  wretches  from  despair.  But 
the  curate  did  his  duty  :  he  who  has  ears 
to  hear  let  him  hear. 

Waiting  in  the  harbor  were  ships  load- 
ing their  freight  of  sin,  crime,  and  woe 
for  Botany  Bay  ;  at  Tyburn  every  week 
women  were  hanged.  Three  hundred 
offences  were  punishable  by  death  ;  but, 
as  in  the  West,  where  horse-stealing  is 
the  supreme  offence,  most  of  the  hang- 
ings were  for  smuggling,  forgery,  or 
shop-lifting.     England  being  a  nationvof 

280 


Elizabeth  jfrg 


shop-keepers  could  not  forgive  offences 
that  might  injure  a  haberdasher. 

Little  Mrs.  Fry,  in  the  plainest  of 
Quaker  gray  dress,  with  bonnet  to  match, 
stood  outside  of  Newgate  and  heard  the 
curate  read  prayers.  She  resolved  to  ask 
the  governor  of  the  prison  if  she  might 
herself  perform  the  office.  The  governor 
was  polite,  but  stated  there  was  no  pre- 
cedent for  such  an  important  move — he 
must  have  time  to  consider.  Mrs.  Fry 
called  again,  and  permission  was  granted, 
with  strict  orders  that  she  must  not  at- 
tempt to  proselyte,  and  further,  she  better 
not  get  too  near  the  grating. 

Mrs.  Fry  gave  the  great  man  a  bit  of 
fright  by  quietly  explaining  thus  :  "  Sir, 
if  thee  kindly  allows  me  to  pray  with  the 
women  I  will  go  inside." 

The  governor  asked  her  to  say  it  again. 
She  did  so,  and  a  bright  thought  came  to 
the  great  man  :  he  would  grant  her  re- 
quest, writing  an  order  that  she  be  al- 
lowed to  go  inside  the  prison  whenever 

281 


J6li3abetb  jfrg 

3he  desired.  It  would  teach  her  a  lesson 
and  save  him  from  further  importunity. 

So  little  Mrs.  Fry  presented  the  order 
and  the  gates  were  swung  open,  and  the 
iron  quickly  snapped  behind  her.  She 
spoke  to  the  women,  addressing  the  one 
who  seemed  to  be  leader  as  sister,  and 
asked  the  others  to  follow  her  back  into 
the  courtway  away  from  the  sound  of  the 
street,  so  they  could  have  prayers.  They 
followed  dumbly.  She  knelt  on  the  stone 
pavement  and  prayed  in  silence.  Then 
she  arose  and  read  to  them  the  107th 
Psalm.  Again  she  prayed,  asking  the 
others  to  kneel  with  her.  A  dozen 
knelt.  She  arose  and  went  her  way  amid 
a  hush  of  solemn  silence. 

Next  day,  when  she  came  again,  the 
ribaldry  ceased  on  her  approach,  and 
after  the  religious  service  she  remained 
inside  the  walls  an  hour  conversing  with 
those  who  wished  to  talk  with  her,  going 
to  all  the  children  that  were  sick  and 
ministering  to  them. 

In  a  week  she  called  all  together  and 
282 


Blijabetb  ffn> 


proposed  starting  a  school  for  the  child- 
ren. The  mothers  entered  into  the  pro- 
ject gladly.  A  governess,  imprisoned 
for  theft,  was  elected  teacher.  A  cell- 
room  was  cleaned  out,  whitewashed,  and 
set  apart  for  a  school-room,  with  the  per- 
mission of  the  governor,  who  granted 
the  request,  explaining,  however,  that 
there  was  no  precedent  for  such  a  thing. 
The  school  prospered,  and  outside  the 
school-room  door  hungry-eyed  women 
listened  furtively  for  scraps  of  knowl- 
edge that  might  be  tossed  overboard. 

Mrs.  Fry  next  organized  classes  for 
these  older  children,  gray-haired,  bowed 
with  sin — many  of  them.  There  were 
twelve  in  each  class,  and  they  elected  a 
monitor  from  their  numbers,  agreeing 
to  obey  her.  Mrs.  Fry  brought  cloth 
from  her  husband's  store,  and  the  women 
were  taught  to  sew.  The  Governor  in- 
sisted that  there  was  no  precedent  for  it, 
and  the  guards  on  the  walls  said  that 
every  scrap  of  cloth  would  be  stolen,  but 
the  guards  were  wrong. 
2S3 


JEli3abetb  jfrg 

The  day  was  divided  up  into  regular 
hours  for  work  and  recreation.  Other 
good  Quaker  women  from  outside  came 
in  to  help ;  and  the  tap-room  kept  by  a 
mercenary  guard  was  done  away  with, 
and  an  order  established  that  no  spirit- 
uous liquors  should  be  brought  into  New- 
gate. The  women  agreed  to  keep  away 
from  the  grating  on  the  street,  except 
when  personal  friends  came ;  to  cease 
begging ;  to  quit  gambling.  They  were 
given  pay  for  their  labor.  A  woman  was 
asked  for  as  turnkey,  instead  of  a  man. 
All  guards  were  to  be  taken  from  the 
walls  that  overlooked  the  women's  de- 
partment. The  women  were  to  be  given 
mats  to  sleep  on,  and  blankets  to  cover 
them  when  the  weather  was  cold.  The 
governor  was  astonished  !  He  called  a 
council  of  the  Lord  Mayor  and  Alder- 
men. They  visited  the  prison,  and  found 
for  the  first  time  that  order  had  come  out 
of  chaos  at  Newgate. 

Mrs.  Fry's  requests  were  granted,  and 

284 


Bli3abetb  #rg 

this  little  woman  awoke  one  morning  to 
find  herself  famous. 

From  Newgate  she  turned  her  attention 
to  other  prisons  ;  she  travelled  through- 
out England,  Scotland,  and  Ireland  visit- 
ing prisons  and  asylums.  She  became 
well  feared  by  those  in  authority,  for  her 
firm  and  gentle  glance  went  straight  to 
every  abuse.  Often  she  was  airily  turned 
away  by  some  official  clothed  in  a  little 
brief  authority,  but  the  man  usually  lived 
to  know  his  mistake. 

She  was  invited  by  the  French  Govern- 
ment to  visit  the  prisons  of  Paris  and 
write  a  report,  giving  suggestions  as  to 
what  reforms  should  be  made.  She  went 
to  Belgium,  Holland,  and  Germany, 
being  received  by  kings  and  queens  and 
prime-ministers — as  costume,  her  plain 
gray  dress  always  sufficing.  She  treated 
royalty  and  unfortunates  alike— simply 
as  equals.  She  kept  constantly  in  her 
mind  the  thought  that  all  men  are  sin- 
ners before  God :  there  are  no  rich,  no 
poor  ;  no  high,  no  low  ;  no  bond,  no 
285 


i£li3abetb  Jfrg 


free.  Conditions  are  transient,  and 
boldly  did  she  say  to  the  King  of  France 
that  he  should  build  prisons  with  the 
idea  of  reformation,  not  revenge,  and 
with  the  thought  ever  before  him  that  he 
himself  or  his  children  might  occupy 
these  cells — so  vain  are  human  ambi- 
tions. To  Sir  Robert  Peel  and  his  cab- 
inet she  read  the  story  concerning  the 
gallows  built  by  Haman.  "You  must 
not  shut  out  the  sky  from  the  prisoner  ; 
you  must  build  no  dark  cells — your  child- 
ren may  occupy  them,"  she  said. 

John  Howard  and  others  had  J.ent  a 
glimmering  ray  of  truth  through  the  fog 
of  ignorance  concerning  insanity.  The 
belief  was  growing  that  insane  people 
were  really  not  possessed  of  devils  after 
all.  Yet  still,  the  cell  system,  strait- 
jacket,  and  hand-cuffs  were  in  great  de- 
mand. In  no  asylum  were  prisoners 
allowed  to  eat  at  tables.  Food  was  given 
to  each  in  tin-basins,  without  spoons, 
knives,  or  forks.  Glass-dishes  and  china 
plates  were  considered  especially  danger 
286 


£1(3  ibetb  ffr\? 


ous  ,  they  told  of  one  man  who  in  an  in- 
sane fit  had  cut  his  throat  with  a  plate, 
aud  another  who  had  swallowed  a  spoon. 

Visiting  an  asylum  at  Worcester,  Mrs. 
Fry  saw  the  inmates  receive  their  tin 
dishes,  and,  crouched  on  the  floor,  eating 
like  wild  beasts.  She  asked  the  chief 
warden  for  permission  to  try  an  experi- 
ment. He  dubiously  granted  it.  With 
the  help  of  several  of  the  inmates  she 
arranged  a  long  table,  covered  it  with 
spotless  linen  brought  by  herself,  placed 
bouquets  of  wild  flowers  on  the  table, 
and  set  it  as  she  did  at  her  own  home. 
Then  she  invited  twenty  of  the  patients 
to  dinner.  They  came,  and  a  clergyman, 
who  was  an  inmate,  was  asked  to  say 
grace.  All  sat  down,  and  the  dinner 
passed  off  as  quietly  and  pleasantly  as 
could  be  wished. 

And  these  were  the  reforms  she  strove 
for,  and  put  into  practical  execution 
everywhere.  She  asked  that  the  word 
asylum  be  dropped,  and  home  or  hos- 
pital used  instead.  In  visiting  asylums, 
287 


;CU3abetb  ffn> 


by  her  presence  she  said  to  the  troubled 
spirits,  Peace,  be  still !  For  half  a  cent- 
ury she  toiled  with  an  increasing  energy 
and  a  never-flagging  animation.  She 
passed  out  full  of  honors,  beloved  as 
woman  was  never  yet  loved — loved  by 
the  unfortuuate,  the  deformed,  the  weak, 
the  vicious.  She  worked  for  a  present 
good,  here  and  now,  believing  that  we 
can  reach  the  future  only  through  the 
present.  In  penology  nothing  has  been 
added  to  her  philosophy,  and  we  have  as 
yet  not  nearly  carried  out  her  suggest- 
ions. 

Generations  will  come  and  go,  nations 
will  rise,  grow  old,  and  die,  kings  and 
rulers  will  be  forgotten,  but  by  so  long 
as  love  kisses  the  white  lips  of  pain  will 
men  remember  the  name  of  Elizabeth 
Fry,  Friend  of  Humanity. 


288 


MARY    LAMB 


289 


Her  education  in  youth  was  not  much  attended 
to,  and  she  happily  missed  all  the  train  of  female 
garniture  which  passeth  by  the  name  of  accom- 
plishments. She  was  tumbled  early,  by  accident 
or  providence,  into  a  spacious  closet  of  good  old 
English  reading,  without  much  selection  or  pro- 
hibition, and  browsed  at  will  upon  that  fair  and 
wholesome  pasturage.  Had  I  twenty  girls  they 
should  be  brought  up  exactly  in  this  fashion.  I 
know  not  whether  their  chance  in  wedlock  might 
not  be  diminished  by  it,  but  I  can  answer  for  it 
that  it  maketh  (if  worst  comes  to  worst)  most  in- 
comparable old  maids. 

Essays  of  Elia. 


ago 


tS/larfZ{  tx^z^x/  cUa/xnAJi 


MARY  LAMB. 


i. 

1SING  the  love  of  brother  and  sister. 
For  he  who  tells  the  tale  of  Charles 
and  Mary  Lamb's  life  must  tell  of  a 
love  that  was  an  uplift  to  this  brother  and 
sister  in  childhood,  that  sustained  them 
in  the  desolation  of  disaster,  and  was  a 
saving  solace  even  when  every  hope 
seemed  gone  and  reason  veiled  her  face. 
This  love  caused  the  flowers  of  spring- 
time to  bloom  for  them  again  and  again, 
and  attracted  such  a  circle  of  admirers, 
that  as  we  read  the  records  of  their  lives, 
set  forth  in  the  letters  they  received  and 
wrote,  we  forget  poverty,  forget  calam- 
ity, and  behold  only  the  radiant,  smiling 
faces  of  loving,  trusting,  trustful  friends. 
291 


/ftarg  Xamb 

The  mother  of  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb 
was  a  woman  of  fine  natural  endowment, 
of  spirit,  and  aspiration.  She  married  a 
man  much  older  than  herself.  We  know 
but  little  about  John  Lamb  ;  we  know 
little  of  his  habits,  less  of  his  ambitions, 
nothing  of  his  ancestry.  Neither  do  we 
care  to.  He  was  not  good  enough  to  at- 
tract, nor  bad  enough  to  be  interesting. 
He  called  himself  a  scrivener,  but  in  fact 
he  was  a  valet.  He  was  neutral  salts  ; 
and  I  say  this  just  after  having  read  his 
son's  amiable  mention  of  him  under 
the  guise  of  "  Lovel,"  and  with  full 
knowledge  that  "  he  danced  well,  was 
a  good  judge  of  vintage,  played  the 
harpsichord,  and  recited  poetry  on  oc- 
casion." 

When  a  woman  of  spirit  stands  up  be- 
fore a  priest  and  makes  solemn  promise 
to  live  with  a  man  who  plays  the  harpsi- 
chord and  is  a  good  judge  of  vintage,  and 
to  love  him  until  either  he  or  she  dies, 
she  sows  the  seeds  of  death  and  disorder. 
Of  course,  I  know  that  men  and  women 
292 


/toan?  Iamb 


who  make  promises  before  priests  know 
not  at  th<:  time  what  they  do  ;  they  find 
out  after  *ards. 

Aud  sj  they  were  married — were  John 
Lamb  and  Elizabeth  Field  ;  and  probably 
very  soon  thereafter  Elizabeth  had  a  pre- 
monition that  this  union  only  held  in 
store  a  glittering  blade  of  steel  for  her 
heart.  For  she  grew  ill  and  dispirited, 
and  John  found  companionship  at  the  ale- 
house, and  came  stumbling  home  asking 
what  the  devil  was  the  reason  his  wife 
could  n't  meet  him  with  a  smile  and  a 
kiss  and  a'  that,  as  a  dutiful  wife  should  ! 

Elizabeth  began  to  live  more  and  more 
within  herself. 

We  often  hear  foolish  men  taunt  women 
with  inability  to  keep  secrets.  But  women 
who  talk  much  often  do  keep  secrets — 
there  are  nooks  in  their  hearts  where  the 
sun  never  enters,  and  where  those  near- 
est them  are  never  allowed  to  look.  More 
lives  are  blasted  by  secrecy  than  frank- 
ness— ay  !  a  thousand  times.  Why  should 
such  a  thing  as  a  secret  ever  exist  ?  'T  is 
293 


flfcars  Xamb 


preposterous,  and  is  proof  positive  of 
depravity.  If  you  and  I  are  to  live  to- 
gether, my  life  must  be  open  as  the  ether 
and  all  my  thoughts  be  yours.  If  I  keep 
back  this  and  that,  you  will  find  it  out 
some  day  and  suspect,  with  reason,  that 
I  also  keep  back  the  other.  Ananias  and 
Sapphira  met  death,  not  so  much  for  sim- 
ple untruthfulness  as  for  keeping  some- 
thing back. 

Elizabeth  Lamb  sought  to  protect  her- 
self against  an  unappreciative  mate  by 
secrecy  (perhaps  she  had  to),  and  the 
habit  grew  until  she  kept  secrets  as  a 
business, — she  kept  foolish  little  secrets. 
Did  she  get  a  letter  from  her  aunt,  she 
read  it  in  suggestive  silence  and  then  put 
it  in  her  pocket.  If  visitors  called  she 
never  mentioned  it,  and  when  the  child- 
ren heard  of  it  weeks  afterward  they 
marvelled. 

And  so  shy  little  Mary  Lamb  wondered 

what  is  was  her  mother  kept  locked  up 

in  the  bottom  drawer  of  the  bureau,  and 

Mary  was  told  that  children  must  not  ask 

294 


/■bars  lamb 

questions — little  girls  should  be  seen  and 
not  heard. 

At  night  Mary  would  dream  of  the 
things  that  were  in  that  drawer,  and 
sometimes  great  big  black  things  would 
creep  out  through  the  keyhole  and  grow 
bigger  and  bigger  until  they  filled  the 
room  so  full  that  you  could  n't  breathe, 
and  then  little  Mary  would  cry  aloud  and 
scream,  and  her  father  would  come  with 
a  strap  that  was  kept  on  a  nail  behind 
the  kitchen  door  and  teach  her  better 
than  to  wake  everybody  up  in  the  middle 
of  the  night. 

Yet  Mary  loved  her  mother  and  sought 
in  many  ways  to  meet  her  wishes,  and  all 
the  time  her  mother  kept  the  bureau  draw 
locked,  and  away  somewhere  on  a  high 
shelf  were  hidden  all  tenderness — all  the 
gentle  loving  words  and  the  caresses 
which  children  crave. 

And  little  Mary's  life  seemed  full  of 
troubles,  and  the  world  a  grievous  place 
where  everybody  misunderstands  every- 
body else  ;  and  at  night-time  she  would 
295 


ifcarg  Xanib 


often  hide  her  face  in  the  pillow  and  cry 
herself  to  sleep. 

But  when  she  was  ten  years  of  age  a 
great  joy  came  into  her  life — a  baby 
brother  came  !  And  all  the  love  in  the 
little  girl's  heart  was  poured  out  for  the 
puny  baby  boy.  Babies  are  troublesome 
things,  anyway,  where  folks  are  awful 
poor  and  where  there  are  no  servants 
and  the  mother  is  not  so  very  strong. 
And  so  Mary  became  the  baby's  own  little 
foster-mother,  and  she  carried  him  about, 
and  long  before  he  could  lisp  a  word  she 
had  told  him  all  the  hopes  and  secrets  of 
her  heart,  and  he  cooed  and  laughed,  and 
lying  on  the  floor,  kicked  his  heels  in  the 
air  and  treated  hope  and  love  and  ambi- 
tion alike. 

I  cannot  find  that  Mar}-  ever  went  to 
school.  She  stayed  at  home  and  sewed, 
did  housework,  and  took  care  of  the  baby. 
All  her  learning  came  by  absorption. 
When  the  boy  was  three  years  old  she 
taught  him  his  letters,  and  did  it  so  deftly 
and  well  that  he  used  to  declare  he  could 
2cj6 


rtfcarg  Xamb 


always  read— and  this  is  as  it  should  be. 
When  seven  years  of  age  the  boy  was 
sent  to  the  Blue-Coat  School.  This  was 
brought  about  through  the  influence  of 
Mr.  Salt,  for  whom  John  Lamb  worked. 
Mr.  Salt  was  a  Bencher,  and  be  it  known 
a  Bencher  in  England  is  not  exactly  the 
same  thing  as  a  Bencher  in  America.  Mr. 
Salt  took  quite  a  notion  to  little  Mary 
Lamb,  and  once  when  she  came  to  his 
office  with  her  father's  dinner,  the  hon- 
orable Bencher  chucked  her  under  the 
chin,  said  she  was  a  fine  little  girl,  and 
asked  her  if  she  liked  to  read.  And  when 
she  answered,  "Oh,  yes,  sir!"  and  then 
added  "If  you  please!"  the  Bencher 
laughed,  and  told  her  she  was  welcome 
to  take  any  book  in  his  library.  And  so 
we  find  she  spent  many  happy  hours  in 
the  great  man's  library  ;  and  it  was 
through  her  importunities  that  Mr.  Salt 
got  banty  Charles  the  scholarship  in 
Christ's  Hospital  School. 

Now  the  Blue-Coat  boys  are  a  curiosity 
to  every  sight-seer  in  London — and  have 
297 


flhnvv  Xamb 


been  for  these  hundred  years  and  more. 
Their  long-tailed  blue  coats,  buckle  shoes, 
and  absence  of  either  hats  or  caps  bring 
the  Yankee  up  with  a  halt.  To  conduct 
an  American  around  to  the  vicinity  of 
Christ's  Hospital  and  let  him  discover  a 
"Blue-Coat"  for  himself  is  a  sensation. 
The  costume  is  exactly  the  same  as  that 
worn  by  Edward,  "the  Boy  King,"  who 
founded  the  school,  and  these  youngsters, 
like  the  birds,  never  grow  old.  You  lean 
against  the  high  iron  fence,  and  looking 
through  the  bars  watch  the  boys  frolic 
and  play  just  as  visitors  looked  in  the 
eighteenth  century  ;  and  I've  never  been 
by  Christ's  Hospital  yet  when  curious  peo- 
ple did  not  stand  and  stare.  And  one 
thing  the  Blue-Coats  seem  to  prove,  and 
that  is  that  hats  are  quite  superfluous. 
One  worthy  man  from  Jamestown,  New 
York,  was  so  impressed  by  these  hatless 
boys  that  he  wrote  a  book  proving  that 
the  wearing  of  hats  was  what  has  kept 
the  race  in  bondage  to  ignorance  all  down 
the  ages.  By  statistics  he  proved  that 
29S 


^1 


n> 


N? 


4. 


«N 


kk' 


>3 


$ 


< 

•J 

S5 
•si 


Si 


/fcary  iamb 


the  Blue-Coats  had  attained  distinction 
quite  out  of  ratio  to  their  number,  and 
cited  Coleridge,  Leigh  Hunt,  Charles 
Lamb,  and  many  others  as  proof.  This 
man  returned  to  Jamestown  hatless  and 
had  he  not  caught  cold  and  been  carried 
off  by  pneumonia  would  have  spread  his 
hatless  gospel,  rendering  the  name  of 
Knox  the  Hatter  infamous,  and  causing 
the  word  "  Derby  "  to  be  henceforth  a  by- 
word and  a  hissing. 

When  little  Charles  Lamb  tucked  the 
tails  of  his  long  blue  coat  under  his  belt 
and  played  leap-frog  in  the  school  yard 
every  morning  at  ten  minutes  after 
'leven,  his  sister,  wan,  yellow,  and 
dreamy,  used  to  come  and  watch  him 
through  these  self-same  iron  bars.  She 
would  wave  the  corner  of  her  rusty  shawl 
in  loving  token  and  he  would  answer 
back  and  would  have  lifted  his  hat  if  he 
had  had  one.  When  the  bell  rang  and 
the  boys  went  pell-mell  into  the  entry-way 
Charles  woidd  linger  and  hold  one  hand 
above  his  head  as  the  stone  wall  swallowed 
29y 


•flfoarg  Xamb 


him,  and  the  sister  knowing  that  all  was 
well  would  hasten  back  to  her  work  in 
Little  Queen  Street,  hard  by,  to  wait  for 
the  morrow  when  she  could  come  again. 

"  Who  is  that  girl  always  hanging 
'round  after  you?"  asked  a  tall,  hand- 
some boy,  called  Ajax,  of  little  Charles 
Lamb. 

"  Wh'  why,  don't  you  know — that,  wh' 
why  that  's  my  sister  Mary  !  " 

"  How  should  I  know  when  you  have 
never  introduced  me!"  loftily  replied 
Ajax.  a 

And  so  the  next  day  at  ten  minutes 
after  'leven  Charles  and  the  mighty  Ajax 
came  down  to  the  fence  and  Charles  had 
to  call  to  Mary  not  to  run  away,  and 
Charles  introduced  Ajax  to  Mary  and  they 
shook  hands  through  the  fence.  And  the 
next  week  Ajax,  who  was  known  in  pri- 
vate life  as  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge, 
called  at  the  house  in  Little  Queen  Street 
where  the  Lambs  lived,  and  they  all  had 
gin  and  water,  and  the  elder  Lamb  played 
the  harpsichord,  a  second-hand  one  that 
300 


flbar£  Xamb 

had  been  presented  by  Mr.  Salt,  and  re- 
cited poetry,  and  Coleridge  talked  the 
elder  I/amb  under  the  table  and  argued 
the  entire  party  into  silence.  Coleridge 
was  only  seventeen  then  but  a  man  grown 
and  already  took  snuff  like  a  courtier, 
tapping  the  lid  of  the  box  meditatively 
and  flashing  a  conundrum  the  while  on 
the  admiring  company. 

Mary  kept  about  as  close  run  of  the 
Blue-Coat  School  as  if  she  had  been  a 
Blue-Coat  herself.  Still  she  felt  it  her 
duty  to  keep  one  lesson  in  advance  of  her 
brother  just  to  know  that  he  was  progress- 
ing well. 

He  continued  to  go  to  school  until  he 
was  fourteen,  when  he  was  set  to  work  in 
the  South  Sea  Company's  office,  because 
his  income  was  needed  to  keep  the  family. 
Mary  Was  educating  the  boy  with  the 
help  of  Mr.  Salt's  library,  for  a  boy  as 
fine  as  Charles  must  be  educated,  you 
know.  By  and  by  the  bubble  burst  and 
young  Lamb  was  transferred  to  the  East 
India  Company's  office  and  being  pro- 
301 


/Iftarg  Xamb 


moted    was    making    nearly   a  hundred 
pounds  a  year. 

And  Mary  sewed  and  borrowed  books 
and  toiled  incessantly,  but  was  ill  at  times. 
People  said  her  head  was  not  just  right — 
she  was  overworked  and  nervous  or  some- 
thing !  The  father  had  lost  his  place  on 
account  of  too  much  gin  and  water — espe- 
cially gin  ;  the  mother  was  almost  help- 
less from  paralysis,  and  in  the  family  was 
an  aged  maiden  aunt  to  be  cared  for.  The 
only  regular  income  was  the  salary  of 
Charles.  There  they  lived  in  their  pov- 
erty and  lowliness,  hoping  for  better 
things  ! 

Charles  was  working  away  over  the 
ledgers  and  used  to  come  home  fagged 
and  weary  and  Coleridge  was  far  away, 
and  there  was  no  boy  to  educate  now  and 
only  sick  and  foolish  and  quibbling  peo- 
ple on  whom  to  strike  fire.  The  dem- 
nition  grind  did  its  work  for  Mary  Lamb 
as  surely  as  it  is  to-day  doing  for  count- 
less farmer's  wives  in  Iowa  and  Illinois. 

Thus  ran  the  years  away. 
302 


/Bars?  Xamb 

Mary  Lamb,  aged  thirty-two,  gentle, 
intelligent,  and  wondrous  kind,  in  sudden 
frenzy  seized  a  knife  from  the  table  and 
with  one  thrust  sank  the  blade  into  her 
mother's  heart.  Charles  Lamb,  in  an 
adjoining  room,  hearing  the  commotion, 
entered  quickly  and  taking  the  knife  from 
his  sister's  hand,  put  his  arm  about  her 
and  tenderly  led  her  away. 

Returning  in  a  few  moments,  the 
mother  was  dead. 

Women  often  make  shrill  outcry  at 
sight  of  a  mouse  ;  men  curse  roundly 
when  large,  buzzing,  blue-bottle  flies  dis- 
turb their  after-dinner  nap  ;  but  let  occa- 
sion come  and  the  stuff  of  which  heroes 
are  made  is  in  us  all.  I  think  well  of  my 
kind. 

Charles  Lamb  made  no  outcry,  he  shed 
no  tears,  he  spoke  no  word  of  reproach. 
He  met  each  detail  of  that  terrible  issue 
as  coolly,  calmly,  and  surely  as  if  he  had 
been  making  entries  in  his  journal.  No 
man  ever  loved  his  mother  more,  but  she 
was  dead  now — she  was  dead.  Pie  closed 
303 


flftarg  Xamb 


the  staring  eyes,  composed  the  stiffening 
limbs,  kept  curious  sight-seers  at  bay, 
and  all  the  time  thought  of  what  he  could 
do  to  protect  the  living — she  who  had 
wrought  this  ruin. 

Charles  was  twenty-one — a  boy  in  feel- 
ing and  temperament,  a  frolicsome,  heed- 
less boy.  In  an  hour  he  had  become  a 
man. 

It  requires  a  subtler  pen  than  mine  to 
trace  the  psychology  of  this  tragedy  ;  but 
let  me  say  thus  much,  it  had  its  birth  in 
love,  in  unrequited  love  ;  and  the  out- 
come of  it  was  an  increase  of  love. 

O  God  !  how  wonderful  are  thy  works  ! 
Thou  makest  the  rotting  log  to  nourish 
banks  of  violets,  and  from  the  stagnant 
pool  at  thy  word  springs  forth  the  lotus 
that  covers  all  with  fragrance  and  beauty  ! 


304 


II. 


COLERIDGE  in  his  youth  was  bril- 
liant, no  one  disputes  that.  He 
dazzled  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb 
from  the  very  first.  Even  when  a  Blue- 
Coat  he  could  turn  a  pretty  quatrain, 
and  when  he  went  away  to  Cambridge 
and  once  in  a  long  while  wrote  a  letter 
down  to  "My  Own  C.  L."  it  was  a  feast 
for  the  sister  too.  Mary  was  different 
from  other  girls,  she  did  n't  "have  com- 
pany," she  was  too  honest  and  serious 
and  earnest  for  society — her  ideals  too 
high.  Coleridge,  handsome,  witty,  philo- 
sophic Coleridge  was  her  ideal.  She 
loved  him  from  afar. 

How  vain  it  is  to  ponder  in  our  minds 
the  what-might-have-been  !  Yet  how  can 
we  help  wondering  what  would  have  been 
the  result  had  Coleridge  wedded  Mary 
Lamb  J  In  many  ways  it  seems  it  would 
305 


/Iftan?  Xamb 


have  been  au  ideal  mating,  for  Mary 
Lamb's  mental  dowry  made  good  Cole- 
ridge's every  deficiency,  and  his  merits 
equalized  all  that  she  lacked.  He  was 
sprightly,  head-strong,  erratic,  emo- 
tional ;  she  was  equally  keen-witted,  but 
a  conservative  in  her  cast  of  mind.  That 
she  was  capable  of  a  great  and  passionate 
love  there  is  no  doubt,  and  he  might 
have  been.  Mary  Lamb  would  have  been 
his  anchor  to  win'ard,  but  as  it  was  he 
drifted  straight  onto  the  rocks.  Her 
mental  troubles  came  from  a  lack  of 
responsibility — a  rusting  away  of  unused 
powers  in  a  dull,  monotonous  round  of 
commonplace.  Had  her  heart  found  its 
home  I  cannot  conceive  of  her  in  any 
other  light  than  as  a  splendid  earnest 
woman — sane,  well-poised,  and  doing  a 
work  that  only  the  strong  can  do.  Cole- 
ridge has  left  on  record  the  statement  that 
she  was  the  only  woman  he  ever  met 
who  had  a  "logical  mind."  That  is  to 
say,  the  only  woman  who  ever  understood 
him  when  he  talked  his  bes';. 
306 


ZJtuynJj, 


Vv/rx/ 


/Ran?  Iamb 

Coleridge  made  progress  at  the  Blue- 
Coat  School  :  he  became  "Deputy  Gre- 
cian," or  head  scholar.  This  secured 
him,  a  scholarship  at  Cambridge  and 
thither  he  went  in  search  of  honors.  But 
his  revolutionary  and  Unitarian  principles 
did  not  serve  him  in  good  stead  and  he 
was  placed  under  the  ban. 

At  the  same  time  a  youth  by  the  name 
of  Robert  Southey  was  having  a  like 
experience  at  Oxford.  Other  youths  had 
tried  in  days  agone  to  shake  Cambridge 
and  Oxford  out  of  their  conservatism,  and 
the  result  was  that  the  embryo  revolu- 
tionists speedily  found  themselves  warned 
off  the  campus.  So  through  sympathy 
Coleridge  and  Southey  met.  Coleridge 
also  brought  along  a  young  philosopher 
and  poet,  who  had  also  been  a  Blue-Coat, 
by  the  name  of  Lovell. 

These  three  young  men  talked  philo- 
sophy, and  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
the  world  was  wrong.  They  said  society 
was  founded  on  a  false  hypothesis — they 
would  better  things.  And  so  they  planned 
307 


/Ifcarg  Xamb 


packing  up  and  away  to  America  to  found 
an  Ideal  Community  on  the  banks  of  the 
Susquehanna.  But  hold  !  a  society  with- 
out women  is  founded  on  a  false  hypo- 
thesis — that's  so— what  to  do?  Now  in 
America  there  are  no  women  but  Indian 
squaws. 

But  resource  did  not  fail  them — Southey 
thought  of  the  Fricker  family,  a  mile  out 
on  the  Bristol  road.  There  were  three 
fine,  strong,  intelligent  girls — what  better 
than  to  marry  'em  ?  The  world  should  be 
peopled  from  the  best.  The  girls  were 
consulted  and  found  willing  to  reorganize 
society  on  the  communal  basis,  and  so 
the  threo  poets  married  the  three  sisters 
— more  properly  each  of  the  three  poets 
married  a  sister.  "Thank  God,"  said 
Lamb,  "  that  there  were  not  four  of  those 
Fricker  girls  or  I  too  would  have  been 
bagged,  and  the  world  peopled  from  the 
best!" 

Southey  got  the  only  prize  out  of  the 
hazard  ;  Novell's  wife  was  so-so,  and 
Coleridge  drew  a  blank,  or  thought  he 
3o3 


Aar£  Xamb 


did,  which  was  the  same  thing ;  for  as  a 
man  thinketh  so  is  she.  The  thought  of 
a  lifetime  on  the  banks  of  the  Susque- 
hanna with  a  woman  who  was  simply 
pink  and  good,  and  who  was  never  roused 
into  animation  even  by  his  wildest  poetic 
bursts,  took  all  ambition  out  of  him. 

Funds  were  low  and  the  immigration 
scheme  was  temporarily  pigeonholed. 
After  a  short  time  Coleridge  declared  his 
mind  was  getting  mildewed  and  packed 
off  to  London  for  mental  oxygen  and  a 
little  visit,  leaving  his  wife  in  Southey's 
charge. 

He  was  gone  two  years. 

Lovell  soon  followed  suit  and  Southey 
had  three  sisters  in  his  household,  all 
with  babies. 

In  the  meantime  we  find  Southey  in- 
stalled at  "Greta,"  just  outside  of  the 
interesting  town  of  Keswick,  where  the 
water  comes  down  at  Lodore.  Southey 
was  a  general :  he  knew  that  knowledge 
consists  in  having  a  clerk  who  can  find 
the  thing.  He  laid  out  research  work 
309 


jflftarp  Xamb 


and  literary  schemes  enough  for  several 
lifetimes,  and  the  three  sisters  were  hard 
at  it.  It  was  a  little  community  of  their 
own — all  working  for  Southey,  and  glad 
of  it.  Wordsworth  and  his  sister  Dorothy 
lived  at  Grasmere,  thirteen  miles  away, 
and  they  used  to  visit  b»ek  and  forth. 
When  you  go  to  Keswick  you  should 
tramp  that  thirteen  miles — the  man  who 
has  n't  tramped  from  Keswick  to  Gras- 
mere has  dropped  something  out  of  his 
life.  In  merry  jest,  tipped  with  acid, 
someone  called  them  "The  Lake  Poets," 
as  if  there  were  poets  and  lake  poets. 
And  Lamb  was  spoken  of  as  "a  Lake 
Poet  by  grace."  Literary  London 
grinned,  as  we  do  when  someone  speaks 
of  the  Sweet  Singer  of  Michigan  or  the 
Chicago  Muse.  But  the  term  of  con- 
tempt stuck  and,  like  the  words,  Metho- 
dist, Quaker,  and  Philistine,  soon  ceased 
to  be  a  term  of  reproach  and  became 
something  of  which  to  be  proud. 

There  is  a  lead-pencil  factory  at  Kes- 
wick established  in  the  year  iSoo.     Pen- 
310 


flfcarg  Xamb 

oils  are  made  there  to-day  exactly  as  they 
were  made  then,  and  when  you  see  the 
factory  you  are  willing  to  believe  it.  All 
visitors  at  Keswick  go  to  the  Pencil  Fac- 
tory and  buy  pencils,  such  as  Southey 
used,  and  get  their  names  stamped  on 
each  pencil  while  they  wait,  without 
extra  charge.  On  the  wall  is  a  silhou- 
ette picture  of  Southey,  showing  a  need- 
lessly large  nose,  and  the  gentlemanly 
old  proprietor  will  tell  you  that  Dorothy 
Wordsworth  made  the  picture  ;  and  then 
he  will  show  you  a  letter,  written  by 
Charles  Lamb,  framed  under  glass, 
wherein  C.  L.  says  all  pencils  are  fairish 
good  but  no  pencils  are  so  good  as  Kes- 
wick pencils. 

For  a  while,  when  times  were  hard, 
Coleridge's  wife  worked  here  making 
pencils,  while  her  archangel  husband  (a 
little  damaged)  went  with  Wordsworth  to 
study  metaphysics  at  Gottingen.  When 
Coleridge  came  back  and  heard  what  his 
wife  had  done  he  reproved  her — gently 
but  firmly.  Mrs.  Ajax  in  a  pencil  factory 
3ii 


flbars  Xamb 

wearing  a  check  apron  with  a  bib! — 
huh!! 

Southey  had  concluded  that  if  Cole- 
ridge and  Lovell  were  good  samples  of 
socialism  he  would  stick  to  individualism. 
So  he  joined  the  Church  of  England, 
became  a  Monarchist,  sang  the  praises  of 
royalty,  got  a  pension,  became  Poet 
Laureate,  and  rich — passing  rich. 

"Wh-wh-when  he  secured  for  himself 
the  services  of  three  good  women  he 
made  a  wise  move,"  said  C.  L. 

And  all  the  time  Coleridge  and  Lamb 
were  in  correspondence  ;  and  when  Cole- 
ridge was  in  London  he  kept  close  run 
of  the  Lambs.  The  father  and  old  aunt 
had  passed  out  and  Charles  and  Mary 
lived  together  in  rooms.  They  seemed 
to  have  moved  very  often — their  record 
followed  them.  When  the  other  tenants 
heard  that  "She's  the  one  that  killed 
her  mother,"  they  ceased  to  let  their 
children  play  in  the  hallways,  and  the 
landlord  apologized,  coughed,  and  raised 
the  rent.  Poor  Charles  saw  the  point 
312 


/Ifcan?  Xamb 

and  did  not  argue  it.  He  looked  for 
other  lodgings  and  having  found  'em 
went  home  and  said  to  Mary  :  "  It's  too 
noisy  here,  Sister, — I  can't  stand  it — we  '11 
have  to  go  !  " 

Charles  was  a  literary  man  now  :  a 
bookkeeper  by  day  and  a  literary  man  by 
night.  He  wrote  to  please  his  sister,  and 
all  his  jokes  were  for  her.  There  is  a 
genuine  vein  of  pathos  in  all  true  humor, 
but  think  of  the  fear  and  the  love  and 
the  tenderness  that  are  concealed  in 
Charles  Lamb's  work  that  was  designed 
only  to  fight  off  dread  calamity !  And 
Mary  copied  and  read  and  revised  for  her 
brother,  and  he  told  it  all  to  her  before 
he  wrote  it,  and  together  they  discussed 
it  in  detail.  Charles  studied  mathematics, 
just  to  keep  his  genius  under,  he  declared. 
Mary  smiled  and  said  it  was  n't  necessary. 

Coleridge  used  to  drop  in  and  the  Stod- 
darts,  Hazlitts,  Godwin,  and  Lovell  too. 
Then  Southey  was  up  in  London  and  he 
called  and  so  did  Wordsworth  and  Doro- 
thy,for  Coleridge  had  spread  Lamb's  fame. 
313 


/IRarg  Uamb 


And  Dorothy  and  Mary  kissed  each  other 
and  held  hands  under  the  table,  and 
when  Dorothy  went  back  to  Grasmere 
she  wrote  many  beautiful  letters  to  Mary 
and  urged  her  to  come  and  visit  her — 
yes,  come  to  Grasmere  and  live.  The 
one  point  they  held  in  common  was  a 
love  for  Coleridge ;  and  as  he  belonged  to 
neither  there  was  no  room  for  jealousy. 
The  Fricker  girls  were  all  safely  married, 
but  Charles  and  Mary  could  not  think  of 
going — they  needs  must  hide  in  a  big 
city.  "I  hate  your  damned  throstles 
and  larks  and  bobolinks,"  said  C.  L.,  in 
feigned  contempt.  "I  sing  the  praises 
of  the  '  Salutation  and  the  Cat '  and  a 
snug  fourth-floor  back." 

They  could  not  leave  Dondon,  for  over 
them  ever  hung  that  black  cloud  of  a 
mind  diseased. 

"lean  do  nothing;  think  nothing. 
Mary  has  another  of  her  bad  spells — we 
saw  it  coming,  and  I  took  her  away  to  a 
place  of  safety,"  writes  Charles  to  Cole» 
ridge. 

314 


Aars  Xamb 


One  writer  tells  of  seeing  Charles  and 
Mary  walking  across  Hampstead  Heath, 
hand  in  hand,  both  crying.  They  were 
on  the  way  to  the  asylum. 

Fortunately  these  "illnesses"  gave 
warning  and  Charles  would  ask  his  em- 
ployer leave  for  a  "  holiday,"  and  stay  at 
home  trying  by  gentle  mirth  and  work 
to  divert  the  dread  visitor  of  unreason. 

After  each  illness,  in  a  few  weeks  the 
sister  would  be  restored  to  her  own,  very 
weak  and  her  mind  a  blank  as  to  what 
had  gone  before.  And  so  she  never 
remembered  that  supreme  calamity.  She 
knew  the  deed  had  been  done,  but 
Heaven  had  absolved  her  gentle  spirit 
from  all  participation  in  it.  She  often 
talked  of  her  mother,  wrote  of  her,  quoted 
her,  and  that  they  should  sometime  be 
again  united  was  her  firm  faith. 

The  Tales  from  Shakespeare  were 
written  at  the  suggestion  of  Godwin, 
seconded  by  Charles.  The  idea  that  she 
herself  could  write  seemed  never  to  have 
occurred  to  Mary,  until  Charles  swore 
315 


.Man?  lamb 

with  a  needless  oath  that  all  the  ideas  he 
ever  had  she  supplied. 

"  Charles,  dear,  you  've  been  drinking 
again  !  "  said  Mary.  But  the  Tales  sold 
and  sold  well  ;  fame  came  that  way  and 
more  money  than  the  simple,  plain  home- 
keeping  bodies  needed.  So  they  started 
a  pension  roll  for  sundry  old  ladies,  and 
to  themselves  played  high  and  mighty 
patron  and  figured,  and  talked  and  joked 
over  the  blue  tea-cups  as  to  what  they 
should  do  with  their  money — five  hun- 
dred pounds  a  year  !  Goodness  gracious, 
if  the  Bank  of  Englaud  gets  in  a  pinch 
advise  C.  L,.,  at  34  Southampton  Build- 
ings, third  floor,  second  turning  to  the 
left  but  one. 

A  Mrs.  Reynolds  was  one  of  the  pen- 
sioners, but  no  one  knew  it  but  Mrs.  Rey- 
nolds, and  she  never  told.  She  was  a 
Lady  of  the  Old  School  and  used  often  to 
dine  with  the  Lambs  and  get  her  snuff 
box  filled.  Her  husband  had  been  a  ship- 
captain  or  something,  and  when  the  tea 
was  strong  she  would  take  snuff  and  tell 
316 


dfoarg  Xamb 


the  visitors  about  him  and  swear  she  had 
ever  been  true  to  his  memory,  though 
God  knows  all  good-looking  and  clever 
widows  are  sorely  tried  in  this  scurvy 
world  !  Mrs.  Reynolds  met  Thomas 
Hood  at  a  "Saturday  Evening"  at  the 
Lambs',  and  he  was  so  taken  with  her 
that  he  has  told  us  "she  looked  like  an 
elderly  wax  doll  in  half  mourning,  and 
when  she  spoke  it  was  as  if  by  an  arti- 
ficial process ;  she  always  kept  up  the 
gurgle  and  buzz  until  run  down." 

Mrs.  Reynolds's  sole  claim  to  literary 
distinction  was  the  fact  that  she  had 
known  Goldsmith  and  he  had  presented 
her  with  an  inscribed  copy  of  The 
Deserted  Village. 

But  we  all  have  a  tender  place  in  our 
hearts  for  the  elderly  wax  doll  because 
the  Lambs  were  so  gentle  and  patient 
with  her,  and  once  a  year  went  to  High- 
gate  and  put  a  shilling  vase  of  flowers 
over  the  grave  of  the  Captain  to  whose 
memory  she  was  ever  true. 

These  friendless  old  souls  used  to  meet 
3i7 


■fl&arg  Xamb 


and  mix  at  the  Lambs'  with  those  whose 
names  are  now  deathless.  You  cannot 
write  the  history  of  English  Letters  and 
leave  the  Lambs  out.  They  were  the 
loved  and  loving  friends  of  Southey, 
Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  De  Quincey,  Jef- 
fries, and  Godwin.  They  won  the  recog- 
nition of  all  who  prize  the  far  reaching 
intellect — the  subtle  imagination.  The 
pathos  and  tenderness  of  their  lives  en- 
twine us  with  tendrils  that  hold  our 
hearts  in  thrall. 

They  adopted  a  little  girl,  a  beautiful 
little  girl  by  the  name  of  Emma  Isola. 
And  never  was  there  child  that  was  a 
greater  joy  to  parents  than  was  Emma 
Isola  to  Charles  and  Mary.  Tbe  wonder 
is  they  did  not  spoil  her  with  admiration, 
and  by  laughing  at  all  her  foolish  little 
pranks.  Mary  set  herself  the  task  of  ed- 
ucating this  little  girl  and  formed  a  class 
the  better  to  do  it — a  class  of  three  : 
Emma  Isola,  William  Hazlitt's  son,  and 
Mary  Victoria  Novello.  I  met  Mary 
Victoria  once  ;  she  's  over  eighty  years  of 
3i8 


/Bars  Xamt> 

age  now.  Her  form  is  a  little  bent,  but 
her  eye  is  brigbt  and  her  smile  is  the 
smile  of  youth.  Folks  call  her  Mary 
Cowden-Clarke. 

And  I  want  you  to  remember,  dearie, 
that  it  was  Mary  Lamb  who  introduced 
the  other  Mary  to  Shakespeare,  by  read- 
ing to  her  the  MS.  of  the  Tales.  And 
further,  that  it  was  the  success  of  the 
Tales  that  fired  Mary  Cowden-Clarke 
with  an  ambition  also  to  do  a  great 
Shakespearian  work.  There  may  be  a 
question  about  the  propriety  of  calling 
the  Tales  a  great  work — their  simplicity 
seems  to  forbid  it, — but  the  term  is  all 
right  when  applied  to  that  splendid  life- 
achievement,  the  Concordance,  of  which 
Mary  L,amb  was  the  grandmother. 

Emma  Isola  married  Edward  Moxon, 
and  the  Moxon  home  was  the  home  of 
Mary  I<amb  whenever  she  wished  to 
make  it  so,  to  the  day  of  her  death.  The 
Moxous  did  good  by  stealth,  and  were 
glad  they  never  awoke  and  found  it  fame. 

"What  shall  I  do  when  Mary  leaves 
3i(J 


/Bars  Xamb 


me,  never  to  return  ?  "  once  said  Charles 
to  Manning.  But  Mary  lived  for  full 
twenty  years  after  Charles  had  gone,  and 
lived  only  in  loving  memory  of  him  who 
had  devoted  his  life  to  her.  She  seemed 
to  exist  just  to  talk  of  him  and  to  garland 
the  grave  in  the  little  old  churchyard  at 
Edmonton,  where  he  sleeps.  Words- 
worth says  :  "  A  grave  is  a  tranquillizing 
object  :  resignation  in  time  springs  up 
from  it  as  naturally  as  wild  flowers  be- 
spread the  turf."  Her  work  was  to  look 
after  the  "pensioners  "  and  carry  out  the 
wishes  of  "  my  brother  Charles." 

But  the  pensioners  were  laid  away  to 
rest,  one  after  the  other,  and  the  gentle 
Mary,  grown  old  and  feeble,  became  a 
pensioner  too,  but,  thanks  to  that  divine 
humanity  that  is  found  in  English  hearts, 
she  never  knew  it.  To  the  last,  she  looked 
after  "the  worthy  poor,"  and  carried 
flowers  once  a  year  to  the  grave  of  the  gal- 
lant Captain  Reynolds  at  Highgate,  and 
never  tired  of  sounding  the  praises  of 
Charles  and  excusing  the  foibles  of  Cole- 
320 


dRarg  Xamb 

ridge.  She  lived  only  in  the  past  and  its 
loving  memories  were  more  than  a  ballast 
'gainst  the  ills  of  the  present. 

And  so  she  went  down  into  the  valley 
and  entered  the  great  shadow,  telling  in 
cheerful,  broken  musings  of  a  brother's 
love. 

And  then  she  was  carried  to  the  church- 
yard at  Edmonton.  There  she  rests  in 
the  grave  with  her  brother.  In  life  they 
were  never  separated,  and  in  death  they 
are  not  divided. 


3«i 


JANE  AUSTEN 


3*3 


Delaford  is  a  nice  place  I  can  tell  you  ;  exactly 
what  I  call  a  nice  old-fashioned  place,  full  of 
comforts,  quite  shut  in  with  great  garden  walls 
that  are  covered  with  fruit  trees  and  such  a  mul- 
berry tree  in  the  corner.  Then  there  is  a  dove- 
cote, some  delightful  fish  ponds,  and  a  very  pretty 
canal,  and  everything,  in  short,  that  one  could 
wish  for ;  and  moreover  it 's  close  to  the  church 
and  only  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  turnpike 
road. 

Sense  and  Sensibility. 


324 


JANE  AUSTEN. 


i. 


IT  was  at  Cambridge,  England,  I  met 
him — a  fine  intelligent  clergyman 
he  was,  too.  "  He  's  not  a  'Varsity 
man,"  said  my  new  acquaintance,  speak- 
ing of  Dr.  Joseph  Parker,  the  world's 
greatest  preacher.  "If  he  were  he 
would  n't  do  all  these  preposterous 
things,  you  know." 

"He's  a  little  like  Henry  Irving,"  I 
ventured  apologetically. 

"True,  and  what  absurd  mannerisms — 
did  you  ever  see  the  like  !  Yes,  one  \s 
from  Yorkshire  and  the  other  from  Corn- 
wall, and  both  are  Philistines." 

He  laughed  at  his  joke  and  so  did  I, 
for  I  always  try  to  be  polite. 
325 


Sane  Busten 


So  I  went  my  way,  and  as  I  strolled  it 
came  to  me  that  my  clerical  friend  was 
right — a  university  course  might  have 
taken  all  the  individuality  out  of  these 
strong  men  and  made  of  their  geuius  a 
purely  neutral  decoction. 

And  when  I  thought  further  and  con- 
sidered how  much  learning  has  done  to 
banish  wisdom,  it  was  a  satisfaction  to 
remember  that  Shakespeare  at  Oxford  did 
nothing  beyond  making  the  acquaintance 
of  an  inn-keeper's  wife. 

It  hardly  seems  possible  that  a  Harvard 
degree  would  have  made  a  stronger  man 
of  Abraham  Lincoln  ;  or  that  Edison, 
whose  brain  has  wrought  greater  changes 
than  that  of  any  other  man  of  the  cen- 
tury, was  the  loser  by  not  being  versed 
in  physics  as  taught  at  Yale. 

The  L,aw  of  Compensation  never  rests, 
and  the  men  who  are  taught  too  much 
from  books  are  not  taught  by  Deity. 
Most  education  in  the  past  has  failed  to 
awaken  in  its  subject  a  degree  of  intel- 
lectual consciousness.  It  is  the  education 
320 


3ane  Busten 


that  the  Jesuits  served  out  to  the  Indian. 
It  made  him  peaceable  but  took  all  dig- 
nity out  of  him.  From  a  noble  red  man 
he  descended  into  a  dirty  Injun,  who 
signed  away  his  heritage  for  rum. 

The  world's  plan  of  education  has 
mostly  been  priestly — we  have  striven 
to  inculcate  trust  and  reverence.  We 
have  cited  authorities  and  quoted  pre- 
cedents and  given  examples  :  it  was  a 
matter  of  memory  :  while  all  the  time  the 
whole  spiritual  acreage  was  left  untilled. 

A  race  educated  in  this  way  never  ad- 
vances, save  as  it  is  jolted  out  of  its  no- 
tions by  men  with  either  a  sublime 
ignorance  of,  or  an  indifference  to  what 
has  been  done  and  said.  These  men  are 
always  called  barbarians  by  their  con- 
temporaries :  they  are  jeered  and  hooted. 
They  supply  much  mirth  by  their  eccen- 
tricities. After  they  are  dead  the  world 
sometimes  canonizes  them  and  carves  on 
their  tombs  the  word  "  Savior." 

Do  I  then  plead  the  cause  of  ignorance  ? 
Well,  yes,  rather  so.  A  little  ignorance 
327 


Jane  Busten 


is  not  a  dangerous  thing.  A  man  who 
reads  too  much — who  accumulates  too 
many  facts — gets  his  mind  filled  to  the 
point  of  saturation  ;  matters  then  crys- 
tallize and  his  head  becomes  a  solid  thing 
that  refuses  to  let  anything  either  in  or 
out.  In  his  soul  there  is  no  guest-cham- 
ber. His  only  hope  for  progress  lies  in 
another  incarnation. 

And  so  a  certain  ignorance  seems  a 
necessary  equipment  for  the  doing  of  a 
great  work.  To  live  in  a  big  city  and 
know  what  others  are  doing  and  saying  ; 
to  meet  the  learned  and  powerful,  and 
hear  their  sermons  and  lectures  ;  to  view 
the  unending  shelves  of  vast  libraries  is 
to  be  discouraged  at  the  start.  And  thus 
we  find  that  genius  is  essentially  rural — 
a  country  product.  Salons,  soirees, 
theatres,  concerts,  lectures,  libraries, 
produce  a  fine  mediocrity  that  smiles  at 
the  right  time  and  bows  when  't  is 
proper,  but  it  is  well  to  bear  in  mind  that 
George  Eliot,  Elizabeth  Barrett,  Char- 
lotte Bronte,  and  Jane  Austen  were  all 
328 


Jane  2Uisten 


country  girls,  with  little  companionship, 
nourished  on  picked-up  classics,  having 
a  healthy  ignorance  of  what  the  world 
was  saying  and  doing. 


329 


n. 


JANE  AUSTEN  lived  a  hundred  years 
ago.  But  when  you  tramp  that 
five  miles  from  Overton ,  where  the 
railroad  station  is,  to  Steven  ton,  where 
she  was  born,  it  does  n't  seem  like  it. 
Rural  England  does  not  change  much. 
Great  fleecy  clouds  roll  lazily  across  the 
blue,  overhead,  and  the  hedgerows  are 
full  of  twittering  birds  that  you  hear  but 
seldom  see  ;  and  tbe  pastures  contain 
mild-faced  cows  that  look  at  you  with 
wide-open  eyes  over  the  stone  walls,  and 
in  the  towering  elm  trees  that  sway  their 
branches  in  the  breeze  crows  hold  a 
noisy  caucus.  And  it  comes  to  you  that 
the  clouds  and  the  blue  sky  and  the 
hedgerows  and  the  birds  and  the  cows 
and  the  crows  are  all  just  as  Jane  Austen 
knew  them — no  change.  These  stone 
330 


Jane  Busten 


walls  stood  here  then  and  so  did  the  low 
slate-roofed  barns  and  the  whitewashed 
cottages  where  the  roses  clamber  over 
the  doors. 

I  paused  in  front  of  one  of  these  snug, 
homely,  handsome  pretty  little  cottages 
and  looked  at  the  two  exact  rows  of 
flowers  that  lined  the  little  walk  leading 
from  gate  to  cottage  door.  The  pathway 
was  made  from  coal  ashes  and  the  flower- 
beds were  marked  ofFby  pieces  of  broken 
crockery  set  on  edge.  'Twas  an  absent- 
minded,  impolite  thing  to  do — to  stand 
leaning  on  a  gate  and  critically  exam- 
ine the  landscape  gardening,  evidently 
an  overworked  woman's  gardening,  at 
that. 

As  I  leaned  there  the  door  opened  and 
a  little  woman  with  sleeves  rolled  up 
appeared.  I  mumbled  an  apology,  but 
before  I  could  articulate  it  she  held 
out  a  pair  of  scissors  and  said,  "  Perhaps, 
sir,  you  'd  like  to  clip  some  of  the  flowers 
— the  roses  over  the  door  are  best ! " 

Three  children  hung  to  her  skirts, 
33i 


3ane  Busten 


peeking  'round  faces  from  behind,  and 
quite  accidentally  disclosing  a  very  neat 
ankle. 

I  took  the  scissors  and  clipped  three 
splendid  Jacqueminots  and  said  it  was  a 
beautiful  day.  She  agreed  with  me  and 
added  that  she  was  just  finishing  her 
churning  and  if  I  'd  wait  a  minute  until 
the  butter  came,  she  'd  give  me  a  drink  of 
buttermilk. 

I  waited  without  urging  and  got  the 
buttermilk,  and  as  the  children  had  come 
out  from  hiding  I  was  minded  to  give 
them  a  penny  apiece.  Two  coppers  were 
all  I  could  muster,  so  I  gave  the  two 
boys  each  a  penny  and  the  little  girl  a 
shilling.  The  mother  protested  that  she 
had  no  change  and  that  a  bob  was  too 
much  for  a  little  girl  like  that,  but  I"  as- 
sumed a  Big-Bonanza  air  and  explained 
that  I  was  from  California  where  the 
smallest  change  is  a  dollar. 

"  Go  thank  the  gentleman,  Jane." 

"  That 's  right,  Jane  Austen,  come  here 
and  thank  me  !  " 

332 


Sane  Hasten 


"  How  did  you  know  her  name  was 
Jane  Austen— Jane  Austen  Humphreys  ? " 

"I  did  n't  know — I  only  guessed." 

Then  little  Mrs.  Humphreys  ceased 
patting  the  butter  and  told  me  that  she 
named  her  baby  girl  for  Jane  Austen,  who 
used  to  live  near  here  a  long  time  ago. 
Jane  Austen  was  one  of  the  greatest  writers 
that  ever  lived — the  Rector  said  so. 
The  Rev.  George  Austen  preached  at 
Steventon  for  years  and  years,  and  I 
should  go  and  see  the  church — the  same 
church  where  he  preached  and  where 
Jane  Austen  used  to  go.  And  anything 
I  wanted  to  know  about  Jane  Austen's 
books  the  Rector  could  tell  for  he  was  a 
wonderful  learned  man  was  the  Rector — 
"  Kiss  the  gentleman,  Jane." 

So  I  kissed  Jane  Austen's  round,  rosy 
cheek  and  stroked  the  towsled  heads  of  the 
two  boys  by  way  of  blessing,  and  started 
for  Steventon  to  interview  the  Rector 
who  was  very  wise. 

And  the  clergyman  who  teaches  his 
people  the  history  of  their  neighborhood, 
333 


3ane  Busten 


and  tells  them  of  the  excellent  men  and 
women  who  once  lived  thereabouts,  is 
both  wise  and  good.  And  the  present 
Rector  at  Steventon  is  both — I  'm  sure  of 
that. 


334 


m. 

IT  was  a  very  happy  family  that  lived 
in  the  Rectory  at  Steventon  from 
1775  to  1801.  There  were  five  boys 
and  two  girls,  and  the  youngest  girl's 
name  was  Jane.  Between  her  and  James, 
the  oldest  boy,  lay  a  period  of  twelve 
years  of  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  days 
each,  not  to  mention  leap  years. 

The  boys  were  sent  away  to  be  educated, 
and  when  they  came  home  at  holiday 
time  they  brought  presents  for  the  mother 
and  the  girls  and  there  was  great  rejoic- 
ing. 

James  was  sent  to  Oxford.  The  girls 
were  not  sent  away  to  be  educated— it 
was  thought  hardly  worth  while  then  to 
educate  women,  and  some  folks  still  hold 
to  that  belief.  When  the  boys  came 
home,  they  were  made  to  stand  by  the 
335 


3ane  Bueten 


door  jamb,  and  a  mark  was  placed  on  the 
casing,  with  a  date,  which  showed  how 
much  they  had  grown.  And  they  were 
catechized  as  to  their  knowledge  and 
cross-questioned  and  their  books  in- 
spected ;  and  so  we  find  one  of  the  sisters 
saying,  once,  that  she  knew  all  of  the 
things  her  brothers  knew,  and  besides 
that  she  knew  all  the  things  she  knew 
herself. 

There  were  plenty  of  books  in  the  li- 
brary and  the  girls  made  use  of  them. 
They  would  read  to  their  father  "because 
his  eyesight  was  bad,"  but  I  cannot  help 
thinking  this  a  clever  ruse  on  the  part  of 
the  good  Rector. 

I  do  not  find  that  there  were  any  se- 
crets in  that  household,  or  that  either 
Mr.  or  Mrs.  Austen  ever  said  that  child- 
ren should  be  seen  and  not  heard.  It 
was  a  little  republic  of  letters — all  their 
own.  Thrown  in  on  themselves,  for  not 
many  of  the  yeomanry  thereabouts  could 
read,  there  was  developed  a  fine  spirit  of 
comradeship  among  parents  and  children, 
33<J 


5ane  Busten 


brothers  and  sisters,  servants  and  visitors, 
that  is  a  joy  to  contemplate.  Before  the 
days  of  railroads  a  "visitor"  was  more 
of  an  institution  than  he  is  now.  He 
stayed  longer  and  was  more  welcome  ; 
and  the  news  he  brought  from  distant 
parts  was  eagerly  asked  for.  Nowadays 
we  know  all  about  everything,  almost 
before  it  happens,  for  yellow  journalism 
is  so  alert  that  it  discounts  futurity. 

In  the  Austen  household  had  lived  and 
died  a  son  of  Warren  Hastings.  The  lad 
had  so  won  the  love  of  the  Austens  that 
they  even  spoke  of  him  as  their  own  ; 
and  this  bond  also  linked  them  to  the 
great  outside  world  of  statecraft.  The 
things  the  elders  discussed  were  the 
properties  too  of  the  children. 

Then  once  a  year  the  Bishop  came — 
came  in  knee  breeches,  hob-nailed  shoes, 
and  shovel  hat,  and  the  little  church  was 
decked  with  greens.  The  Bishop  came 
from  Paradise,  little  Jane  used  to  think, 
and  once,  to  be  polite,  she  asked  him 
how  all  the  folks  were  in  Heaven.  Then 
N  337 


Jane  Busten 


the  other  children  giggled  and  the  Bishop 
spilt  a  whole  cup  of  tea  down  the  front 
of  his  best  coat,  and  coughed  and  choked 
until  he  was  very  red  in  the  face. 

When  Jane  was  ten  years  old  there 
came  to  live  at  the  Rectory  a  daughter  of 
Mrs.  Austen's  sister.  She  came  to  them 
direct  from  France.  Her  name  was 
Madame  Fenillade.  She  was  a  widow 
and  only  twenty-two.  Once  when  little 
Jane  overheard  one  of  the  brothers  say 
that  Monsieur  Fenillade  had  kissed  Ma- 
damoiselle  Guillotine,  she  asked  what  he 
meant  and  they  would  not  tell  her. 

Now  Madame  spoke  French  with  grace 
and  fluency,  and  the  girls  thought  it 
queer  that  there  should  be  two  languages 
— English  and  French — so  they  picked 
up  a  few  words  of  French,  too,  and  at  the 
table  would  gravely  say  "Merci,  Papa," 
and  "  S'  il  vous  plait,  Mamma."  Then  Mr. 
Austen  proposed  that  at  table  no  one 
should  speak  anything  but  French.  So 
Madame  told  them  what  to  call  the  sugar 
and  the  salt  and  the  bread,  and  no  one 
338 


3ane  Busten 


called  anything  except  by  its  French 
name.  In  two  weeks  each  of  the  whole 
dozen  persons  who  sat  at  that  board,  as 
well  as  the  girl  who  waited  on  table,  had 
a  bill-of-fare  working  capital  of  French. 
In  six  months  they  could  converse  with 
ease. 

And  science  with  all  its  ingenuity  has 
not  yet  pointed  out  a  better  way  for  ac- 
quiring a  new  language,  than  the  plan  the 
Austens  adopted  at  Steventon  Rectory. 
We  call  it  the  "  Berlitz  Method  "  now. 

Madame  Fenillade's  widowhood  rested 
lightly  upon  her,  and  she  became  quite 
the  life  of  the  whole  household. 

One  of  the  Austen  bo37s  fell  in  love 
with  the  French  widow  ;  and  surely  it 
would  be  a  very  stupid  country  boy  that 
would  n't  love  a  French  widow  like  that ! 

And  they  were  married  and  lived  hap- 
pily ever  afterward. 

But  before  Madame  married  and  moved 
away  she  taught  the  girls  charades,  and 
then  little  plays,  and  a  theatrical   per- 
formance was  given  in  the  barn. 
339 


3ane  Husten 


Then  a  play  could  not  be  found  that 
just  suited,  so  Jaiie  wrote  one  and  Cassan- 
dra helped,  and  Madame  criticised  and 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Austen  suggested  a  few 
changes.  Then  it  was  all  rewritten. 
And  this  was  the  first  attempt  at  writing 
for  the  public  by  Jane  Austen. 


%4 


340 


IV. 


JANE  AUSTEN  wrote  four  great  nov- 
els. Pride  and  Prejudice  was 
begun  when  she  was  twenty  and  fin- 
ished a  year  later.  The  old  father  started 
a  course  of  novel-reading  on  his  own  ac- 
count in  order  to  fit  his  mind  to  pass 
judgment  on  his  daughter's  work.  He 
was  sure  it  was  good,  but  feared  that  love 
had  blinded  his  eyes  and  he  wanted  to 
make  sure.  After  six  months'  compar- 
ison he  wrote  to  a  publisher  explaining 
that  he  had  the  MS.  of  a  great  novel  that 
would  be  parted  with  for  a  consideration. 
He  assured  the  publisher  that  the  novel 
was  as  excellent  as  any  Miss  Burney, 
Miss  Edgeworth,  or  anyone  else  ever 
wrote. 

Now  publishers  get  letters  like  that 
by  every  mail,   and  when   Mr.    Austen 
341 


Jane  Busten 


received  his  reply  it  was  so  antarctic  iu 
sentiment  that  the  MS.  was  stored  away 
in  the  garret  where  it  lay  for  just  eleven 
years  before  it  found  a  publisher.  But 
in  the  meantime  Miss  Austen  had  writ- 
ten three  other  novels — not  with  much 
hope  that  anyone  would  publish  them, 
but  to  please  her  father  and  the  few 
intimate  friends  who  read  and  sighed 
and  smiled  in  quiet. 

The  year  she  was  thirty  years  of  age 
her  father  died — died  with  no  thought 
that  the  world  would  yet  endorse  his 
own  loving  estimate  of  his  daughter's 
worth. 

After  the  father's  death  financial  trou- 
bles came  and  something  had  to  be  done 
to  fight  off  possible  hungry  wolves.  The 
MS.  was  hunted  out,  dusted,  gone  over, 
and  submitted  to  publishers.  They 
sniffed  at  it  and  sent  it  back.  Finally 
a  man  was  found  who  was  bold  enough 
to  read.  He  liked  it  but  would  n't  admit 
the  fact.  Yet  he  decided  to  print  it. 
He  did  so.  The  reading  world  liked  it 
342 


5ane  Susten 

and  said  so,  although  not  very  loudly. 
Slowly  the  work  made  head,  and  small- 
sized  London  drafts  were  occasionally 
sent  by  publishers  to  Miss  Austen  with 
apologies  because  the  amounts  were  not 
larger. 

Now  in  reference  to  writing  books  it 
may  not  be  amiss  to  explain  that  no  one 
ever  said,  "  Now  then,  I  '11  write  a  story  !  " 
and  sitting  down  at  table  took  up  pen 
and  dipping  it  in  ink,  wrote.  Stories 
don't  come  that  way.  Stories  take  pos- 
session of  one — incident  after  incident — 
and  you  write  in  order  to  get  rid  of  'em 
— with  a  few  other  reasons  mixed  in, 
for  motives,  like  silver,  are  always  found 
mixed.  Children  play  at  keeping  house  : 
and  men  and  women  who  have  loved 
think  of  the  things  that  have  happened, 
then  imagine  all  the  things  that  might 
have  happened,  and  from  thinking  it  all 
over  to  writing  it  out  is  but  a  step.  You 
begin  one  chapter  and  write  it  this  fore- 
noon, and  do  all  you  may  to  banish  the 
plot  the  next  chapter  is  all  in  your  head 
343 


Jane  Busten 


before  sundown.  Next  morning  you 
write  chapter  number  two,  to  unload 
it,  and  so  the  story  spins  itself  out  into 
a  book.  All  this  if  you  live  in  the 
country  and  have  time  to  think  and  are 
not  broken  in  upon  by  too  much  work 
and  worry — save  the  worry  of  the  ever 
restless  mind.  Whether  the  story  is 
good  or  not  depends  upon  what  you 
leave  out. 

The  sculptor  produces  the  beautiful 
statue  by  chipping  away  such  parts  of 
the  marble  block  as  are  not  needed. 

Really  happy  people  do  not  write 
stories — they  accumulate  adipose  tissue 
and  die  at  the  top  through  fatty  degen- 
eration of  the  cerebrum.  A  certain  dis- 
appointment in  life,  a  dissatisfaction 
with  environment,  is  necessary  to  stir 
the  imagination  to  a  creative  point.  If 
things  are  all  to  your  taste  you  sit  back 
and  enjoy  them.  You  forget  the  flight 
of  time,  the  march  of  the  seasons,  your 
future  life,  family,  country — all,  just  as 
Antony  did  in  Egypt.  A  deadly,  languor- 
344 


3ane  Busten 


ous  satisfaction  comes  over  you.  Pain, 
disappointment,  unrest,  or  a  joy  that 
hurts,  are  the  things  that  prick  the  mind 
into  activity. 

Jane  Austen  lived  in  a  little  village. 
She  felt  the  narrowness  of  her  life — the 
inability  of  those  beyond  her  own  house- 
hold to  match  her  thoughts  and  emotions. 
Love  came  that  way — a  short  heart-rest,  a 
being  understood,  were  hers.  The  gates 
of  Paradise  swung  ajar  and  she  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  glories  within,  and  sighed 
and  clasped  her  hands  and  bowed  her 
head  in  a  prayer  of  thankfulness. 

When  she  arose  from  her  knees  the 
gates  were  closed ;  the  way  was  dark ; 
she  was  alone — alone  in  a  little  quibbling, 
carping  village,  where  tired  folks  worked 
and  gossiped,  ate,  drank,  slept.  Her 
home  was  pleasant,  to  be  sure,  but  man 
is  a  citizen  of  the  world,  not  of  a  house. 

Jane  Austen  began  to  write — to  write 

about  these    village   people.     Jane  was 

tall,  and  twenty — not  very  handsome,  but 

better,  she  was  good-looking.    She  looked 

345 


3ane  Busten 


good  because  she  was.  She  was  pious, 
but  not  too  pious.  She  used  to  go  call- 
ing among  the  parishioners,  visiting  the 
sick,  the  lowly,  the  troubled.  Then 
when  Great  Folks  came  down  from  Lon- 
don to  "the  Hall,"  she  went  with  the 
Rector  to  call  on  them  too,  for  the  Rector 
was  servant  to  all — his  business  was  to 
minister :  he  was  a  Minister.  And  the 
Reverend  George  Austen  was  a  bit  proud 
of  his  youngest  daughter.  She  was  just 
as  tall  as  he,  and  dignified  and  gentle  : 
and  the  clergyman  chuckled  quietly  to 
himself  to  see  how  she  was  the  equal  in 
grace  and  intellect  of  any  Fine  Lady  from 
London  town. 

And  although  the  good  Rector  prayed, 
"  From  all  vanity  and  pride  of  spirit, 
good  Lord,  deliver  us,"  it  never  occurred 
to  him  that  he  was  vain  of  his  tall 
daughter  Jane,  and  I'm  glad  it  didn't. 
There  is  no  more  crazy  bumble-bee  gets 
into  a  mortal's  bonnet  than  the  buzzing 
thought  that  God  is  jealous  of  the  affec- 
tion we  have  for  our  loved  ones.  If  we 
346 


Sane  austen 


are  ever  damned,  it  will  be  because  we 
have  too  little  love  for  our  fellows,  not 
too  much. 

But,  egad !  brother,  it 's  no  small  de- 
light to  be  sixty  and  a  little  stooped  and 
a  trifle  rheumatic,  and  have  your  own 
blessed  daughter,  sweet  and  stately, 
comb  your  thinning  grey  locks,  help  you 
on  with  your  overcoat,  find  your  cane, 
and  go  trooping  with  you,  hand  in  hand, 
down  the  lane  on  merciful  errand  bent. 
It 's  a  temptation  to  grow  old  and  feign 
sciatica ;  and  if  you  could  only  know 
that,  someday,  like  old  King  Lear,  upon 
your  withered  cheek  would  fall  Cordelia's 
tears,  the  thought  would  be  a  solace. 

So  Jane  Austen  began  to  write  stories 
about  the  simple  folks  she  knew.  She 
wrote  in  the  family  sitting-room  at  a  little 
mahogany  desk  that  she  could  shut  up 
quickly  if  prying  neighbors  came  in  to  tell 
their  woes  and  ask  questions  about  all 
those  sheets  of  paper  !  And  all  she  wrote 
she  read  to  her  father  and  to  her  sister 
Cassandra. 

347 


5anc  Busten 

And  they  talked  it  all  over  together 
and  laughed  and  cried  and  joked  over  it. 
The  kind  old  minister  thought  it  a  good 
mental  drill  for  his  girls  to  write  and  ex- 
press their  feelings.  The  two  girls  col- 
laborated— that  is  to  say  one  wrote  and 
the  other  looked  on.  Neither  girl  had 
been  "educated,"  except  what  their 
father  taught  them.  But  to  be  born  into 
a  bookish  family,  and  inherit  the  hospi- 
table mind  and  the  receptive  heart,  is 
better  than  to  be  sent  to  Harvard  Annex. 

Preachers,  like  other  folks,  sometimes 
assume  a  virtue  when  they  have  it  not. 
But  George  Austen  did  n't  pretend — he 
was.  And  that 's  the  better  plan,  for  no 
man  can  deceive  his  children — they  take 
his  exact  measurement,  whether  others 
ever  do  or  not ;  and  the  only  way  to  win 
and  hold  the  love  of  a  child  (or  a  grown- 
up) is  to  be  frank  and  simple  and  honest. 
I  've  tried  both  schemes. 

I  cannot  find  that  George  Austen  ever 
claimed  he  was  only  a  worm  of  the  dust, 
or  pretended  to  be  more  or  less  than  he 
348 


3-ane  austen 


was,  or  to  assume  a  knowledge  that  he  did 
not  possess.  He  used  to  say,  "  My  Dears, 
I  really  do  not  know.  But  let 's  keep  the 
windows  open  and  light  may  yet  come." 

It  was  a  busy  family  of  plain  average 
people — not  very  rich,  and  not  very  poor. 
There  were  difficulties  to  meet,  and 
troubles  to  share,  and  joys  to  divide. 

Jane  Austen  was  born  in  1775;  "Jane 
Eyre "  in  1816 — one  year  before  Jane 
Austen  died. 

Charlotte  Bronte  knew  all  about  Jane 
Austen,  and  her  example  fired  Charlotte's 
ambition.  Both  were  daughters  of  coun- 
try clergymen.  Charlotte  lived  in  the 
north  of  England  on  the  wild  and  treeless 
moors,  where  the  searching  winds  rattled 
the  panes  and  black-faced  sheep  bleated 
piteously.  Jane  Austen  lived  in  the  rich 
quiet  of  a  prosperous  farming  country, 
where  bees  made  honey  and  larks  nested. 
The  Rev.  Patrick  Bronte  disciplined  his 
children  :  George  Austen  loved  his.  In 
Steventon  there  is  no  "Black  Bull"; 
only  a  little  dehorned  inn,  kept  by  a 
349 


Jane  Busten 


woman  who  hatches  canaries,  and  will 
sell  you  a  warranted  singer  for  five  shil- 
lings, with  no  charge  for  the  cage.  At 
Steventon  no  red-haired  Yorkshiremen 
offer  to  give  fight  or  challenge  you  to  a 
drinking-bout. 

The  opposites  of  things  are  alike,  and 
that  is  why  the  world  ties  Jane  Eyre  and 
Jane  Austen  in  one  bundle.  Their  meth- 
ods of  work  were  totally  different :  their 
effects  gotten  in  different  ways.  Char- 
lotte Bronte  fascinates  by  startling  situa- 
tions and  highly  colored  lights  that  dance 
and  glow,  leading  you  on  in  a  mad  chase. 
There  's  pain,  unrest,  tragedy  in  the  air. 
The  pulse  always  is  rapid  and  the  tem- 
perature high. 

It  is  not  so  with  Jane  Austen.  She  is 
an  artist  in  her  gentleness,  and  the  world 
is  to-day  recognizing  this  more  and  more. 
The  stage  now  works  its  spells  by  her 
methods — without  rant,  cant,  or  fustian 
— and  as  the  years  go  by  this  must  be  so 
more  and  more,  for  mankind's  face  is 
turned  toward  truth. 
350 


Jane  Hustcn 


To  weave  your  spell  out  of  common- 
place events  and  brew  a  love-potion 
from  every-day  materials  is  high  art. 
When  Kipling  takes  three  average  sol- 
diers of  the  line,  ignorant,  lying,  swear- 
ing, smoking,  dog-fighting  soldiers,  who 
can  even  run  on  occasion,  and  by  tell- 
ing of  them  hold  a  world  in  thrall — 
that  's  art !  In  these  soldiers  three  we 
recognize  something  very  much  akin  to 
ourselves,  for  the  thing  that  holds  no 
relationship  to  us  does  not  interest  us — 
we  cannot  leave  the  personal  equation 
out.  This  fact  is  made  plain  in  The 
Black  Riders,  where  the  devils  dancing 
in  Tophet  look  up  and  espying  Steve 
Crane,  address  him  thus  :  "  Brother  !  " 

Jane  Austen's  characters  are  all  plain, 
every-day  folks.  The  work  is  always 
quiet.  There  are  no  entangling  situa- 
tions, no  mysteries,  no  surprises. 

Now,  to  present  a  situation,  an  emo- 
tion, so  it  will  catch  and  hold  the  atten- 
tion of  others,  is  largely  a  knack — you 
practise  on  the  thing  until  you  do  it 
351 


3ane  Busten 


well.  This  one  thing  I  do.  But  the  man 
who  does  this  thing  is  not  intrinsically 
any  greater  than  those  who  appreciate 
it — in  fact  they  are  all  made  of  the  same 
kind  of  stuff.  Kipling  himself  is  quite  a 
commonplace  person.  He  is  neither 
handsome  nor  magnetic.  He  is  plain 
and  manly  and  would  fit  in  anywhere. 
If  there  was  a  trunk  to  be  carried  up- 
stairs, or  an  ox  to  get  out  of  a  pit, 
you  'd  call  on  Kipling  if  he  chanced  that 
way,  and  he  'd  give  you  a  lift  as  a  matter 
of  course,  and  then  go  on  whistling  with 
hands  in  his  pockets.  His  art  is  a  knack 
practised  to  a  point  that  gives  facility. 

Jane  Austen  was  a  commonplace  per- 
son. She  swept,  seved,  worked,  and  did 
the  duty  that  lay  nearest  her.  She  wrote 
because  she  liked  to,  and  because  it 
gave  pleasure  to  others.  She  wrote  as 
well  as  she  could.  She  had  no  thought 
of  immortality,  or  that  she  was  writing 
for  the  ages — no  more  than  Shakespeare 
had.  She  never  anticipated  that  Southey, 
Coleridge,  I/amb,  Guizot,  and  Macaulay 
352 


5ane  austen 


would  hail  her  as  a  marvel  of  insight, 
nor  did  she  suspect  that  a  woman  as 
great  as  George  Eliot  would  declare  her 
work  flawless. 

But  to-day  strong  men  recognize  her 
books  as  rarely  excellent,  because  they 
show  the  divinity  in  all  things,  keep 
close  to  the  ground  ;  gently  inculcate 
the  firm  belief  that  simple  people  are  as 
necessary  as  great  ones,  that  small  things 
are  not  necessarily  unimportant,  and  that 
nothing  is  really  insignificant.  It  all  rings 
true. 

And  so  I  sing  the  praises  of  the  aver- 
age woman — the  woman  who  does  her 
work,  who  is  willing  to  be  unknown, 
who  is  modest  and  unaffected,  who  tries 
to  lessen  the  pains  of  earth,  and  to  add 
to  its  happiness.  She  is  the  true  guard- 
ian angel  of  mankind  ! 

No  book  published  in  Jane  Austen's 
lifetime  bore  her  name  on  the  title-page  ; 
she  was  never  lionized  by  society ;  she 
was  never  two  hundred  miles  from  home  ; 
she  died  when  forty -two  years  of  age,  and 
353 


5ane  Husten 


it  was  sixty  years  before  a  biography  was 
attempted  or  asked  for.  She  sleeps  in 
the  cathedral  at  Winchester,  and  not  so 
very  long  ago  a  visitor,  on  asking  the 
verger  to  see  her  grave,  was  conducted 
thither,  and  the  verger  asked,  "  Was  she 
anybody  in  particular?  so  many  folks 
ask  where  she  's  buried,  you  know  !  " 

But  this  is  changed  now,  for  when  the 
verger  took  me  to  her  grave  and  we 
stood  by  that  plain  black  marble  slab,  he 
spoke  intelligently  of  her  life  and  work. 
And  many  visitors  now  go  to  the  cathe- 
dral only  because  it  is  the  resting-place 
of  Jane  Austen,  who  lived  a  beautiful, 
helpful  life  and  produced  great  art,  yet 
knew  it  not. 


354 


EMPRESS  JOSEPHINE 


355 


You  have  met  General  Bonaparte  in  ray  house. 
"Well— he  it  is  who  would  supply  a  father's 
place  to  the  orphans  of  Alexander  de  Beau- 
harnais,  and  a  husband's  to  his  widow.  I  ad- 
mire the  General's  courage,  the  extent  of  his 
information,  for,  on  all  subjects  he  talks  equally 
well,  and  the  quickness  of  his  judgment,  which 
enables  him  to  seize  the  thoughts  of  others 
almost  before  they  are  expressed  ;  but,  I  confess 
it,  I  shrink  from  the  despotism  he  seems  desir- 
ous of  exercising  over  all  who  approach  him.  His 
searching  glance  has  something  singular  and 
inexplicable,  which  imposes  even  on  our  Direct- 
ors; judge  if  it  may  not  intimidate  a  woman. 
Even — what  ought  to  please  me— the  force  of  a 
passion,  described  with  an  energy  that  leaves  not 
a  doubt  of  his  sincerity,  is  precisely  the  cause 
which  arrests  the  consent  I  am  often  on  the 
point  of  pronouncing. 

Letters  of  Josephine. 


356 


ft 


EMPRESS  JOSEPHINE. 


IT  was  a  great  life,  dearie,  a  great  life  ! 
Charles  Lamb  used  to  study  mathe- 
matics to  subdue  his  genius,  and  I  '11 
have  to  tinge  truth  with  gray  in  order 
to  keep  this  little  sketch  from  appearing 
like  a  red  Ruritania  romance. 

Josephine  was  born  on  an  island  in  the 
Caribbean  Sea,  a  long  way  from  France. 
The  Little  Man  was  an  islander  too. 
They  started  for  France  about  the  same 
time,  from  different  directions,  each  of 
course  totally  unaware  that  the  other 
lived.  They  started  on  the  order  of  that 
joker  Fate,  in  order  to  scramble  conti- 
nental politics,  and  make  omelet  of  the 
world's  pretensions. 

357 


Bmprese  Josepbine 


Josephine's  father  was  Captain  Tascher. 
Do  you  know  who  Captain  Tascher  was  ? 
Very  well,  there  is  satisfaction  then  in 
knowing  that  no  one  else  does  either. 
He  seems  to  have  had  no  ancestors ;  and 
he  left  no  successor  save  Josephine. 

We  know  a  little  less  of  Josephine's 
mother  than  we  do  of  her  father.  She 
was  the  daughter  of  a  Frenchman  whom 
the  world  had  plucked  of  both  money 
and  courage,  and  he  moved  to  the  West 
Indies  to  vegetate  and  brood  on  the 
vanity  of  earthly  ambitions.  Young 
Captain  Tascher  married  the  planter's 
daughter  in  the  year  1762.  The  next 
year  a  daughter  was  born,  and  they  called 
her  name  Josephine. 

Not  long  after  her  birth,  Captain  Tas- 
cher thought  to  mend  his  prospects  by 
moving  to  one  of  the  neighboring  islands. 
His  wife  went  with  him,  but  they  left  the 
baby  girl  in  the  hands  of  a  good  old 
aunt,  until  they  could  corral  fortune  and 
make  things  secure  for  this  world  at 
least. 

358 


impress  Josephine 


They  never  came  back,  for  they  died  and 
were  buried. 

Josephine  never  had  any  recollection 
of  her  parents.  But  the  aunt  was  gentle 
and  kindly,  and  life  was  simple  and  cheap. 
There  was  plenty  to  eat,  and  no  clothing 
to  speak  of  was  required,  for  the  equator 
was  only  a  stone's  throw  away  ;  in  fact 
it  was  in  sight  of  the  house,  as  Josephine 
herself  has  said. 

There  was  a  Catholic  church  near,  but 
no  school.  Yet  Josephine  learned  to 
read  and  write.  She  sang  with  the  ne- 
groes and  danced  and  swam  and  played 
leap-frog.  When  she  was  nine  years  old, 
her  aunt  told  her  she  must  not  play  leap- 
frog any  more,  but  she  should  learn  to 
embroider  and  to  play  the  harp  and  read 
poetry.  Then  she  would  grow  up  and 
be  a  fine  lady. 

And  Josephine  thought  it  a  bit  hard, 
but  said  she  would  try. 

She  was  tall  and  slender  but  not  very 
handsome.  Her  complexion  was  rather 
yellow,  her  hands  bony.  But  the  years 
359 


Bmpress  Sosepbfne 


brought  grace,  and  even  if  her  features 
were  not  pretty  she  had  one  thing  that 
was  better,  a  gentle  voice.  So  far  as  I 
know,  no  one  ever  gave  her  lessons  in 
voice  culture  either.  Perhaps  the  voice 
is  the  true  index  of  the  soul.  Josephine's 
voice  was  low,  sweet,  and  so  finely  modu- 
lated that  when  she  spoke  others  would 
pause  to  listen — not  to  the  words,  just  to 
the  voice. 

Occasionally  visitors  came  to  the  island 
and  were  received  at  the  old  rambling 
mansion  where  Josephine's  aunt  lived. 
From  them  the  girl  learned  about  the 
great,  outside  world  with  its  politics  and 
society  and  strife  and  rivalry  ;  and  when 
the  visitor  went  away  Josephine  had 
gotten  from  him  all  he  knew.  So  the 
young  woman  became  wise  without  school 
and  learned  without  books. 

A  year  after  the  memorable  year  of 
1776,  there  came  to  the  island,  Vicomte 
Alexander  Beauharnais.  He  had  come 
direct  from  America,  where  he  had  fought 
on  the  side  of  the  Colonies  against 
360 


fimpreys  Josephine 


the  British.  He  was  full  of  republican 
principles.  Paradoxically,  he  was  also 
rich  and  idle  and  somewhat  of  an  ad- 
venturer. 

He  called  at  the  old  aunt's,  Madame 
Renaudin's,  and  called  often.  He  fell  vio- 
lently in  love  with  Josephine.  I  say  vio- 
lently, for  that  was  the  kind  of  man  he 
was.  He  was  thirty,  she  was  fifteen. 
His  voice  was  rough  and  guttural,  so  I  do 
not  think  he  had  much  inward  grace. 
Josephine's  fine  instincts  rebelled  at 
thought  of  accepting  his  proffered  affec- 
tion. She  explained  that  she  was  be- 
trothed to  another,  a  neighboring  youth 
of  about  her  own  age,  whose  thoughts  and 
feelings  matched  hers. 

Beauharnais  said  that  was  nothing  to 
him,  and  appealed  to  the  old  folks,  dis- 
playing his  title,  submitting  an  inventory 
of  his  estate  ;  and  the  old  folks  agreed  to 
look  into  the  matter.  They  did  so  and 
explained  to  Josephine  that  she  should 
not  longer  hold  out  against  the  wishes  of 
those  who  had  done  so  much  for  her. 
361 


impress  3-osepbine 


And  so  Josephine  relented  and  they 
were  married,  although  it  cannot  truth- 
fully be  said  they  lived  happily  ever 
afterward.  They  started  for  France  on 
their  wedding  tour.  In  six  weeks  they 
arrived  in  Paris.  Returned  soldiers  and 
famed  travellers  are  eagerly  welcomed  by 
society ;  especially  is  this  so  when  the 
traveller  brings  a  Creole  wife  from  the 
equator.  The  couple  supplied  a  new 
thrill,  and  society  in  Paris  is  always  eager 
for  a  new  thrill. 

Vicomte  Beauharnais  and  his  wife 
became  quite  the  rage.  It  was  expected 
that  the  Creole  lady  would  be  beautiful 
but  dull ;  instead,  she  was  not  so  very 
beautiful  but  very  clever.  She  dropped 
into  all  the  graceful  ways  of  polite  society 
intuitively. 

In  a  year,  domestic  life  slightly  inter- 
fered with  society's  claims — a  son  was 
born.     They  called  his  name  Eugene. 

Two  more  years  and  a  daughter  was 
born.    They  called  her  name  Hortense. 

Josephine  was  only  twenty,  but  the 
362 


JEmprcaS  5osepbiuc 


tropics  and  social  experience  and  mater- 
nity had  given  ripeness  to  her  life.  She 
became  thoughtful  and  inclined  rather  to 
stay  at  home  with  her  babies  than  chase 
fashion's  butterflies. 

Beauharnais  chased  fashion's  butter- 
flies, and  caught  them,  too,  for  he  came 
home  late  and  quarrelled  with  his  wife — a 
sure  sign. 

He  drank  a  little,  gamed  more,  sought 
excitement,  and  talked  politics  needlessly 
loud  in  underground  cafes. 

Men  who  are  wofully  lax  in  their  mar- 
riage relations  are  very  apt  to  regard  their 
wives  with  suspicion.  If  Beauharnais  had 
been  weighed  in  the  balances  he  would 
have  been  found  wanton.  He  instituted 
proceedings  against  Josephine  for  divorce. 

And  Josephine  packed  up  a  few  scanty 
effects  and  taking  her  two  children  started 
for  her  old  home  in  the  West  Indies.  It 
took  all  the  money  she  had  to  pay  pas- 
sage. 

It  was  the  old,  old  story — a  few  years 
of  gay  life  in  the  great  city,  then  cruelty 
3^3 


impress  5osepbtne 


too  great  for  endurance,  tears,  shut  white 
lips,  a  firm  resolve — and  back  to  the  old 
farm  where  homely,  loyal  hearts  await, 
and  outstretched  arms  welcome  the  sor- 
rowful, yet  glad  return. 

Beauharnais  failed  to  get  his  divorce* 
The  court  said  "no  cause  for  action." 
He  awoke,  stared  stupidly  about,  felt  the 
need  of  sympathy  in  his  hour  of  undoing, 
and  looked  for— Josephine. 

She  was  gone. 

He  tried  absinthe,  gambling,  hot  dissi- 
pation ;  but  he  could  not  forget.  He  had 
sent  away  his  granary  and  storehouse ; 
his  wand  of  wealth  and  heart's  desire. 
Two  ways  opened  for  peace,  only  two :  a 
loaded  pistol — or  get  her  back. 

First  he  would  try  to  get  her  back,  and 
the  pistol  should  be  held  in  reserve  in 
case  of  failure. 

Josephine  forgave  and  came  back ;  for 
a  good  woman  forgives  to  seventy  times 
seven. 

Beauharnais  met  her  with  all  the  ten- 
derness a  lover  could  command.  The 
3<J4 


JEmpress  Uosepbinc 


ceremony  of  marriage  was  again  sacredly 
solemnized.  They  retired  to  the  country 
and  with  their  two  children  lived  three 
of  the  happiest  months  Josephine  ever 
knew  ;  at  least  Josephine  said  so,  and  the 
fact  that  she  made  the  same  remark  about 
several  other  occasions  is  no  reason  for 
doubting  her  sincerity.  Then  they  moved 
back  to  Paris. 

Beauharnais  sobered  his  ambitions,  and 
kept  good  hours.  He  was  a  soldier  in  the 
employ  of  the  king,  but  his  sympathies 
were  with  the  people.  He  was  a  Republi- 
can with  a  Royalist  bias  but  some  said  he 
was  a  Royalist  with  a  Republican  bias. 

Josephine  looked  after  her  household, 
educated  her  children,  did  much  chari- 
table work,  and  knew  what  was  going  on 
in  the  state. 

But  those  were  troublous  times.  Mur- 
der was  in  the  air  and  revolution  was 
rife.  That  mob  of  a  hundred  thousand 
women  had  tramped  out  to  Versailles 
and  brought  the  king  back  to  Paris. 
He  had  been  beheaded,  and  Marie  Autoi- 
305 


Empress  Sosepbtne 


nette  had  followed  him.  The  people 
were  in  power  and  Beauharnais  had 
labored  to  temper  their  wrath  with 
reason.  He  had  even  been  Chairman 
of  the  Third  Convention.  He  called 
himself  Citizen.  But  the  fact  that  he 
was  of  noble  birth  was  remembered, 
and  in  September,  of  1793,  three  men 
called  at  his  house.  When  Josephine 
looked  out  of  the  window,  she  saw  by 
the  wan  light  of  the  moon  a  file  of  sol- 
diers standing  stiff  and  motionless. 

She  knew  the  time  had  come.  They 
marched  Citizen  Beauharnais  to  the 
Luxembourg. 

In  a  few  feverish  months,  they  came 
back  for  his  wife.  Her  they  placed  in 
the  nunnery  of  the  Carmelites — that 
prison  where,  but  a  few  months  before, 
a  mob  relieved  the  keepers  of  their 
vigils  by  killing  all  their  charges. 

Robespierre  was  supreme.  Now  Robes- 
pierre had  come  into  power  by  undoing 
Danton.  Danton  had  helped  lug  in 
the  Revolution,  but  when  he  touched  a 
366 


Bmprees  Sosepbine 


match  to  the  hay  he  did  not  really  mean 
to  start  a  conflagration,  only  a  bonfire. 

He  tried  to  dampen  the  blaze,  and 
Robespierre  said  he  was  a  traitor  and 
led  him  to  the  guillotine.  Robespierre 
worked  the  guillotine  until  the  bearings 
grew  hot.  Still  the  people  who  rode  in 
the  death-tumbril  did  not  seem  so  very 
miserable.  Despair  pushed  far  enough 
completes  the  circle  and  becomes  peace — 
a  peace  like  unto  security.  It  is  the  last 
stage  :  hope  is  gone,  but  the  comforting 
thought  of  heroic  death  and  an  eternal 
sleep  takes  its  place. 

When  Josephine  at  the  nunnery  of  the 
Carmelites  received  from  the  Luxem- 
bourg prison  a  package  containing  a 
generous  lock  of  her  husband's  hair,  she 
knew  it  had  been  purchased  from  the 
executioner. 

Now  the  prison  of  the  Carmelites  was 
unfortunately  rather  crowded.  In  fact 
it  was  full  to  the  roof-tile.  Five  ladies 
were  obliged  to  occupy  one  little  cell. 
One  of  these  ladies  in  the  cell  with 
367 


impress  Soeepbtne 


Josephine  was  Madame  Foutenay.  Now 
Madame  Foutenay  was  fondly  loved  by 
Citizen  Tallien,  who  was  a  member  of 
the  Assembly  over  which  Citizen  Robes- 
pierre presided.  Citizen  Tallien  did  not 
explain  his  love  for  Madame  to  the  public 
because  Madame  chanced  to  be  the  wife 
of  another.  So  how  could  Robespierre 
know  that  when  he  imprisoned  Madame 
he  was  touching  the  tenderest  tie  that 
bound  his  friend  Tallien  to  earth  ? 

Robespierre  sent  word  to  the  prison 
of  the  Carmelites  that  Madame  Fontenay 
and  Madame  Beauharnais  should  pre- 
pare for  death — they  were  guilty  of  plot- 
ting against  the  people. 

Now  Tallien  came  daily  to  the  prison 
of  the  Carmelites,  not  to  visit  of  course, 
but  to  see  that  the  prisoners  were  properly 
restrained.  A  cabbage  stalk  was  thrown 
out  of  a  cell  window,  and  Tallien  found 
in  the  stalk  a  note  from  his  lady-love  to 
this  effect :  "  I  am  to  die  in  two  days ;  to 
save  me  you  must  overthrow  Robes- 
pierre." 

,        363 


Empress  Josepbine 


The  next  day  there  was  trouble  when 
the  Convention  met.  Tallien  got  the 
platform  and  denounced  Robespierre  in 
a  Cassius  voice  as  a  traitor — the  arch 
enemy  of  the  people — a  plotter  for  self. 
To  emphasize  his  remarks  he  brandished 
a  glittering  dagger.  Other  orations  fol- 
lowed in  like  vein.  All  orders  that 
Robespierre  had  given  out  were  abro- 
gated by  acclamation.  Two  days  and 
Robespierre  was  made  to  take  a  dose 
of  the  medicine  he  had  so  often  prescribed 
for  others.  He  was  beheaded  by  Samson, 
his  own  servant,  July  15,  1794. 

Immediately  all  "suspects"  impris- 
oned on  his  instigation  were  released. 

Madame  Fontenay  and  the  widow 
Beauharnais  were  free.  Soon  after  this 
Madame  Fontenay  became  Madame  Tal- 
lien. Josephine  got  her  children  back 
from  the  country,  but  her  property 
was  gone  and  she  was  in  sore  straits. 
But  she  had  friends,  yet  none  so 
loyal  and  helpful  as  Citizen  Tallien 
and  his  wife.  Their  home  was  hers. 
369 


^Empress  3osepbine 


And  it  was  there  she  met  a  man 
by  the  name  of  Barras,  and  there  too 
she  met  a  man  who  was  a  friend  of 
Barras  ;  by  name,  Bonaparte — Napoleon 
Bonaparte.  Bonaparte  was  twenty-six. 
He  was  five  feet  two  inches  high  and 
weighed  one  hundred  and  twenty  pounds. 
He  was  beardless  and  looked  like  a  boy, 
and  at  that  time  his  face  was  illumined 
by  an  eruption. 

Out  of  employment  and  waiting  for 
something  to  turn  up,  he  yet  had  a  very 
self-satisfied  manner. 

His  peculiar  way  of  listening  to  con- 
versation —  absorbing  everything  and 
giving  nothing  out — made  one  uncom- 
fortable. Josephine,  seven  years  his 
senior,  did  not  like  the  youth.  She  had 
had  a  wider  experience  and  been  better 
brought  up  than  he,  and  she  let  him 
know  it,  but  he  did  not  seem  especially 
abashed. 


37o 


II. 


JUST  what  the  French  Revolution  was 
no  one  has  yet  told  us.  Read 
"  Carlyle "  backward  or  forward 
and  it  is  grand  :  it  puts  your  head  in  a 
whirl  of  heroic  intoxication,  but  it  does 
not  explain  the  Revolution.  Suspicion, 
hate,  tyranny,  revenge,  fear,  mawkish 
sentimentality,  mad  desire,  were  in  the 
air.  One  leader  was  deposed  because 
he  did  nothing,  and  his  successor  was 
carried  to  the  guillotine  because  he 
did  too  much.  Convention  after  con- 
vention was  dissolved  and  re-formed. 
On  the  fourth  of  October,  1795,  there 
was  a  howl  and  a  roar  and  a  shriek 
from  forty  thousand  citizens  of  Paris. 
No  one  knew  just  what  they  wanted — the 
forty  thousand  did  not  explain.  Perhaps 
it  was  nothing — only  the  leaders  who 
37i 


jEmpress  3osepbine 

wanted  power.  They  demanded  that  the 
Convention  should  be  dissolved  :  certain 
men  must  be  put  out  and  others  put  in. 

The  Convention  convened  and  all  the 
members  felt  to  see  if  their  heads  were  in 
proper  place — tQ-morrow  they  might  not 
be.  The  room  was  crowded  to  suffoca- 
tion. Spectators  filled  the  windows, 
perched  on  the  gallery  railing,  climbed 
and  clung  on  the  projecting  parts  of 
columns.  High  up  on  one  of  these  col- 
umns sat  the  j'oung  man,  Bonaparte, 
silent,  unmoved,  still  waiting  for  some- 
thing to  turn  up. 

The  Convention  must  protect  itself,  and 
the  call  was  for  Barras.  Barras  had  once 
successfully  parleyed  with  insurrection — 
he  must  do  so  again.  Barras  turned 
bluish-white,  for  he  knew  that  to  deal 
with  this  mob  successfully  a  man  must  be 
blind  and  deaf  to  pity.  He  struggled  to 
his  feet — he  looked  about  helplessly — 
the  Convention  silently  waited  to  catch 
the  words  of  its  savior. 

High  up  on  a  column  Barras  spied  the 
372 


Empress  Sosepbinc 


lithe  form  of  the  artillery  major,  whom 
he  had  seen,  with  face  of  bronze,  deal  out 
grape  and  canister  at  Toulon.  Barras 
raised  his  hand  and  pointing  at  the  young 
officer  cried,  "There,  there  is  the  man 
who  can  save  you  !  " 

The  Convention  nominated  the  little 
man  by  acclamation  as  commander  of  the 
city's  forces.  He  slid  down  from  his 
perch,  took  half  an  hour  to  ascertain 
whether  the  soldiers  were  on  the  side  of 
the  mob  or  against  it — for  it  was,  usually 
a  toss-up, — and  decided  to  accept  the 
commandant.  Next  day  the  mob  sur- 
rounded the  Tuileries  in  the  name  of 
Liberty,  Fraternity,  and  Equality.  The 
Terrorists  entreated  the  soldiers  to  throw 
down  their  arms,  then  they  reviled  and 
cajoled  and  cursed  and  sang,  and  the 
women  as  usual  were  in  the  vanguard. 
Paris  recognized  the  divine  right  of  in- 
surrection .  Who  dare  shoot  into  such  a 
throng  ! 

The  young  artillery  major  dare.  He 
gave  the  word  and  red  death  mowed  wide 
373 


Empress  Josephine 


swaths,  and  the  balls  spat  against  the 
walls  and  sang  through  the  windows  of 
the  Church  of  St.  Roche  where  the  mob 
was  centred.  Again  and  again  he  fired. 
It  began  at  Four  by  the  clock  and  at  Six 
all  good  people,  and  bad,  had  retired  to 
their  homes,  and  Paris  was  law-abiding. 

The  Convention  named  Napoleon  Gen- 
eral of  the  Interior,  and  the  French  Re- 
volution became  from  that  moment  0 
thing  that  was. 


374 


III. 

OF  course  no  one  in  Paris  was  so 
much  talked  of  as  the  young 
artillery  officer.  Josephine  was 
a  bit  proud  that  she  had  met  him,  and 
possibly  a  little  sorry  that  she  had  treated 
him  so  coldly.  He  only  wished  to  be 
polite  ! 

Josephine  was  an  honest  woman,  but 
still,  she  was  a  woman.  She  desired  to 
be  well  thought  of,  and  to  be  well  thought 
of  by  men  in  power.  Her  son  Eugene 
was  fifteen,  and  she  had  ambitions  for 
him  :  and  to  this  end  she  saw  the  need  of 
keeping  in  touch  with  the  Powers. 
Josephine  was  a  politician  and  a  diplomat, 
for  all  women  are  diplomats.  She  ar- 
rayed Eugene  in  his  Sunday-best  and 
told  him  to  go  to  the  General  of  the  In- 
terior and  explain  that  his  name  was 
375 


Bmpress  Josephine 

Eugene  Beauharnais,  that  his  father  was 
the  martyred  patriot,  General  Beauhar- 
nais, and  that  this  beloved  father's  sword 
was  in  the  archives  over  which  Provi- 
dence had  placed  the  General  of  the  In- 
terior. Furthermore,  the  son  should  re- 
quest that  the  sword  of  his  father  be 
given  him  so  that  it  might  be  used  in 
defence  of  France  if  need  be. 

And  it  was  so  done. 

The  whole  thing  was  needlessly  melo- 
dramatic, and  Napoleon  laughed.  The 
poetry  of  war  was  to  him  a  joke.  Buthe 
stroked  the  youth's  curls,  asked  after  his 
mother,  and  ordered  his  secretary  to  go 
fetch  that  sword. 

So  the  boy  carried  the  sword  home  and 
was  very  happy,  and  his  mother  was  very 
happy  and  proud  of  him,  and  she  kissed 
him  on  both  cheeks  and  kissed  the  sword 
and  thought  of  the  erring,  yet  generous 
man  who  once  had  carried  it.  Then  she 
thought  it  would  be  but  proper  for  her  to 
go  and  thank  the  man  who  had  given  the 
sword  back  ;  for  had  he  not  stroked  her 
376 


Empress  Sosepbine 


boy's  curls  and  told  him  he  was  a  fine 
young  fellow,  and  asked  after  his  mother  ! 

So  the  next  day  she  went  to  call  on  the 
man  who  had  so  graciously  given  the 
sword  back.  She  was  kept  waiting  a 
little  while  in  the  ante-room,  for  Napo- 
leon always  kept  people  waiting — it  was 
a  good  scheme.  When  admitted  to  the 
presence,  the  General  of  the  Interior,  in 
simple  corporal's  dress,  did  not  remember 
her.  Neither  did  he  remember  about 
giving  the  sword  back — at  least  he  said 
so.  He  was  always  a  trifler  with  women, 
though  ;  and  it  was  so  delicious  to  have 
this  tearful  widow  remove  her  veil  and 
explain,  for  gadzooks  !  had  she  not  several 
times  allowed  the  mercury  to  drop  to 
zero  for  his  benefit  ? 

And  so  she  explained,  and  gradually  it 
all  came  back  to  him — very  slowly  and 
after  cross-questioning — and  then  he  was 
so  glad  to  see  her.  When  she  went  away, 
he  accompanied  her  to  the  outer  door, 
bare-headed,  and  as  they  walked  down 
the  long  hallway  she  noted  the  fact  that 
377 


impress  Joeepbfne 


he  was  not  so  tall  as  she  by  three  inches. 
He  shook  hands  with  her  as  they  parted 
and  said  he  would  call  on  her  when  he 
had  gotten  a  bit  over  the  rush. 

Josephine  went  home  in  a  glow.  She 
did  not  like  the  man — he  had  humiliated 
her  by  making  her  explain  who  she  was, 
and  his  manner,  too,  was  offensively 
familiar.  And  yet  he  was  a  power,  there 
was  no  denying  that,  and  to  know  men  of 
power  is  a  satisfaction  to  any  woman. 
He  was  twenty  years  younger  than 
Beauharnais,  the  mourned — twenty  years ! 
Then  Beauharnais  was  tall  and  had  a 
splendid  beard  and  wore  a  dangling 
sword.  Beauharnais  was  of  noble  birth, 
educated,  experienced,  but  he  was  dead  ; 
and  here  was  a  beardless  boy  being  called 
the  Chief  Citizen  of  France.  Well,  well, 
well! 

She  was  both  pleased  and  hurt — hurt  to 
think  she  had  been  humbled,  and  pleased 
to  think  such  attentions  had  been  paid 
her.  In  a  few  days  the  young  general 
called  on  the  widow  to  crave  forgiveness 
378 


Empress  3osepbine 


for  not  having  recognized  her  when  she 
had  called  on  him.  It  was  very  stupid  in 
him,  very  ! 

She  forgave  him. 

He  complimented  Eugene  in  terse,  lav- 
ish terms,  and  when  he  went  away  kissed 
Hortense,  who  was  thirteen  and  thought 
herself  too  big  to  be  kissed  by  a  strange 
man.  But  Napoleon  said  they  all  seemed 
just  like  old  friends.  And  seeming  like 
old  friends  he  called  often. 

Josephine  knew  Paris  and  Parisian  so- 
ciety thoroughly.  Fifteen  years  of  close 
contact  in  success  and  defeat  with  states- 
men, soldiers,  diplomats,  artists,  and  lit- 
erati had  taught  her  much.  It  is  probable 
that  she  was  the  most  gifted  woman  in 
Paris.  Now  Napoleon  learned  by  induc- 
tion as  Josephine  had,  and  as  all  women 
do,  and  as  genius  must,  for  life  is  short — 
only  dullards  spend  eight  years  at  Oxford. 
He  absorbed  Josephine  as  the  devil-fish 
does  its  prey.  And  to  get  every  thought 
and  feeling  that  a  good  woman  possesses 
you  must  win  her  completest  love.  In 
379 


Bmpress  Sosepbine 


this  close  contact  she  gives  up  all — unlike 
Sapphira — holding  nothing  back. 

Among  educated  people,  people  of 
breeding  and  culture,  Napoleon  felt  ill  at 
ease.  With  this  woman  at  his  side  he 
would  be  at  home  anywhere.  And  feel- 
ing at  once  that  he  coidd  win  her  only  by 
honorable  marriage  he  decided  to  marry 
her.  He  was  ambitious.  Has  that  been 
remarked  before  ?  Well,  one  cannot  al- 
ways be  original — still  I  think  the  facts 
bear  out  the  statement.  Josephine  was 
ambitious  too,  but  someway  in  this  part- 
nership she  felt  that  she  would  bring 
more  capital  into  the  concern  than  he, 
and  she  hesitated. 

But  power  had  given  dignity  to  the  Lit- 
tle Man  ;  his  face  had  taken  on  the  cold 
beauty  of  marble.  Success  was  better 
than  sarsaparilla.  Josephine  was  aware 
of  his  growing  power,  and  his  persistency 
was  irresistible  ;  and  so  one  evening 
when  he  dropped  in  for  a  moment,  her 
manner  told  all.  He  just  took  her  in  his 
arms,  and  kissing  her  very  tenderly  whis- 
380 


JEmpress  Josephine 

pered,  "  My  dear,  together  we  will  win," 
and  went  his  way.  When  he  wished  to 
be,  Napoleon  was  the  ideal  lover  ;  he  was 
master  of  that  fine  forbearance,  flavored 
with  a  dash  of  audacity,  that  women  so  ap- 
preciate. He  never  wore  love  to  a  frazzle, 
nor  caressed  the  object  of  his  affections 
into  fidgets  ;  neither  did  he  let  her  starve, 
although  she  might  at  times  go  hungry. 

However,  the  fact  remains  that  Jose- 
phine married  the  man  to  get  rid  of  him  ; 
but  that 's  a  thing  women  are  constantly 
doing. 

The  ceremony  was  performed  by  a 
Justice  of  the  Peace,  March  9,  1796.  It 
was  just  five  months  since  the  bride  had 
called  to  thank  the  groom  for  giving  back 
her  husband's  sword,  and  fifteen  months 
after  this  husband's  death.  Napoleon 
was  twenty-seven  ;  Josephine  was  thirty- 
three,  but  the  bridegroom  swore  he  was 
tweuty-eight  and  the  lady  twenty -nine. 
As  a  fabricator  he  wins  our  admiration. 

Twelve  days  after  the  marriage,  Na- 
poleon set  out  for  Italy  as  Commander-in- 
3S1 


Bmpress  Josephine 


chief  of  the  army.  To  trace  the  brilliant 
campaign  of  that  year,  when  the  tri-color 
of  France  was  carried  from  the  Bay  of 
Biscay  to  the  Adriatic  Sea,  is  not  my  busi- 
ness. Suffice  it  to  say  that  it  placed  the 
name  of  Bonaparte  among  the  foremost 
names  of  military  leaders  of  all  time. 
But  amid  the  restless  movement  of  grim 
war  and  the  glamour  of  success  he  never 
for  a  day  forgot  his  Josephine.  His  let- 
ters breathe  a  youthful  lover's  affection, 
and  all  the  fond  desires  of  his  life  were 
hers.  Through  her  he  also  knew  the 
pulse  and  temperature  of  Paris — its  form 
and  pressure. 

It  was  a  year  before  they  saw  each 
other.  She  came  on  to  Milan  and  met 
him  there.  They  settled  in  Montebello, 
at  a  beautiful  country  seat,  six  miles  from 
the  city.  From  there  he  conducted  ne- 
gotiations for  peace, — and  she  presided 
over  the  gay  social  circles  of  the  ancient 
capital.  "  I  gain  provinces  ;  you  win 
hearts,"  said  Napoleon.  It  was  a  very 
Napoleonic  remark. 
382 


Bmpress  Josepbine 

Napoleon  had  already  had  Eugene  with 
him,  and  together  they  had  seen  the  glory 
of  battle.  Now  Hortense  was  sent  for, 
and  they  were  made  Napoleon's  children 
by  adoption.  These  were  days  of  glow- 
ing sunshine  and  success  and  warm  affec- 
tion. 

And  so  Napoleon  with  his  family  re- 
turned to  France  amid  bursts  of  applause, 
proclaimed  everywhere  the  Savior  of  the 
State,  its  Protector,  and  all  that.  Civil 
troubles  had  all  vanished  in  the  smoke  of 
war  with  foreign  enemies.  Prosperity 
was  everywhere,  the  fruits  of  conquest 
had  satisfied  all,  and  the  discontented 
class  had  been  drawn  off  into  the  army 
and  killed  or  else  was  now  cheerfully 
boozy  with  success. 

Napoleon  made  allies  of  all  powers  he 
could  not  easily  undo,  and  proffered  his 
support — biding  his  time.  Across  the 
English  Channel  he  looked  and  stared 
with  envious  eyes.  Josephine  had  tasted 
success  and  known  defeat.  Napoleon  had 
only  tasted  success.  She  begged  that  he 
383 


Empress  Josepbtne 


would  rest  content  and  hold  secure  that 
which  he  had  gained.  Success  in  its  very 
nature  must  be  limited,  she  said.  He 
laughed  and  would  not  hear  it.  For  the 
first  time  she  felt  her  influence  over  him 
was  waning.  She  had  given  her  all ;  he 
greedily  absorbed,  and  now  had  come  to 
believe  in  his  own  omniscience.  He  told 
her  that  on  a  pinch  he  could  get  along 
without  her — within  himself  he  held  all 
power.  Then  he  kissed  her  hand  in  mock 
gallantry  and  led  her  to  the  door,  as  he 
would  be  alone. 

When  Napoleon  started  on  the  Egyp- 
tian campaign,  Josephine  begged  to  go 
with  him  ;  other  women  went,  dozens  of 
them.  They  seemed  to  look  upon  it  as  a 
picnic  party.  But  Napoleon,  insisting 
that  absence  makes  the  heart  grow  fonder, 
said  his  wife  should  remain  behind. 

Josephine  was  too  good  and  great  for 
the  wife  of  such  a  man.  She  saw  through 
him.  She  understood  him,  and  only  hon- 
est men  are  willing  to  be  understood. 
He  was  tired  of  her,  for  she  no  longer 
334 


impress  3osepbine 


ministered  to  his  vanity.  He  had  cap- 
tured her,  and  now  he  was  done  with  her. 
Besides  that,  she  sided  with  the  peace 
party,  and  this  was  intolerable.  Still  he 
did  not  beat  her  with  a  stick  ;  he  treated 
her  most  graciously,  and  installing  her  at 
beautiful  Malmaison,  provided  her  with 
everything  to  make  her  happy. 

And  if  "  things  "  could  make  one 
happy,  she  would  have  been. 

And  as  for  the  Egyptian  campaign,  it 
surely  was  a  picnic  party,  or  it  was  until 
things  got  so  serious  that  frolic  was  sup- 
planted by  fear.  You  can't  frolic  with 
your  hair  on  end  like  quills  upon  the 
fretful  porcupine.  Napoleon  did  not 
write  to  his  wife.  He  frolicked.  Occa- 
sionally his  secretary  sent  her  a  formal 
letter  of  instruction,  and  when  she  at  last 
wrote  him  asking  an  explanation  for  such 
strange  silence,  the  Little  Man  answered 
her  with  accusations  of  infidelity. 

Josephine  decided  to  secure  a  divorce 

and  there  is  pretty  good  proof  that  papers 

were  prepared  ;  and  had  the  affair  been 

335 


£mprc0s  3osepbfnc 


carried  along,  the  courts  would  have  at 
once  allowed  the  separation  on  statutory 
grounds.  However,  the  papers  were  de- 
stroyed, and  Josephine  decided  to  live  it 
out.  But  Napoleon  had  heard  of  these 
proposed  divorce  proceedings  and  was 
furious.  When  he  came  back,  it  was  with 
the  intention  of  immediate  legal  separa- 
tion— in  any  event  separation. 

He  came  back  and  held  out  haugh- 
tily for  three  days,  addressing  her  as 
"  Madame,"  and  refusing  so  much  as  to 
shake  hands.  After  the  three  days  he 
sued  for  peace  and  cried  it  out  on  his 
knees  with  his  head  in  her  lap.  It  was 
not  genuine  humility,  only  the  humility 
that  follows  debauch.  Napoleon  had 
many  kind  impulses,  but  his  mood  was 
selfish  indifference  to  the  rights  or  wishes 
of  others.  He  did  not  hold  hate,  yet  the 
thought  of  a  divorce  from  Josephine  was 
palliated  in  his  own  mind  by  the  thought 
that  she  had  first  suggested  it.  "I  took 
her  at  her  word,"  he  once  said  to  Bertram, 
as  if  the  thing  were  pricking  him. 
386 


Empress  5osepbine 


And  so  matters  moved  on.  There  was 
war,  and  rumors  of  war,  alway  ;  but  the 
vanquished  paid  the  expenses.  It  was 
thought  best  that  France  should  be  ruled 
by  three  consuls.  Three  men  were 
elected,  with  Napoleon  as  First  Consul. 
The  First  Consul  bought  off  the  Second 
and  Third  Consuls  and  replaced  them 
with  two  wooden  men  from  the  Twenty- 
first  Ward. 

Josephine  worked  for  the  glory  of 
France  and  for  her  husband  :  she  was 
diplomat  and  adviser.  She  placated  ene- 
mies and  made  friends. 

France  prospered,  and  in  the  wars  the 
foreigner  usually  not  only  paid  the  bills, 
but  a  goodly  tribute  beside.  Nothing  is 
so  good  as  war  to  make  peace  at  home. 
An  insurrectionist  at  home  makes  a  splen- 
did soldier  abroad.  Napoleon's  battles 
were  won  by  the  "  dangerous  class." 

As  the  First  Consul  was  Emperor  in 

fact,  the  wires  were  pulled,  and  ha  was 

made  so  in  name.     His  wife  was  made 

Empress:  it  must  be  so,  as  a  breath  of 

3S7 


impress  Josephine 

disapproval  might  ruin  the  whole  scheme. 
Josephine  was  beloved  by  the  people,  and 
the  people  must  know  that  she  was  hon- 
ored by  her  husband.  With  a  woman's 
intuition,  Josephine  saw  the  end — power 
grows  until  it  topples.  She  pleaded, 
begged — it  was  of  no  avail, — the  tide 
swept  her  with  it,  but  whither,  whither  ? 
she  kept  asking. 

Meantime  Hortense  had  been  married 
to  Louis,  brother  of  Napoleon.  In  due 
time  Napoleon  found  himself  a  grand- 
father. He  both  liked  it  and  did  n't.  He 
considered  himself  a  youth  and  took  a 
pride  in  being  occasionally  mistaken  for 
a  recruit,  and  here  some  newspaper  had 
called  him  "granddaddy,"  and  people 
had  laughed  !  He  was  not  even  a  father, 
except  by  law — not  nature, — and  that 's 
no  father  at  all  for  nature  does  not  recog- 
nize law.  He  joked  with  Josephine  about 
it,  and  she  turned  pale. 

There  is  no  subject  on  which  men  so 
deceive  themselves  as  concerning  their 
motives  for  doing  certain  things.  On  no 
388 


Bmpress  Josepbtne 


subject  do  mortals  so  deceive  themselves 
as  their  motives  for  marriage.  Their 
acts  may  be  all  right,  but  the  reasons 
they  give  for  doing  them  never  are.  Na- 
poleon desired  a  new  wife  because  he 
wished  a  son  to  found  a  dynasty. 

"  You  have  Eugene  !  "  said  Josephine. 

"  He  's  my  son  by  proxy,"  said  Napo- 
leon, with  a  weary  smile. 

All  motives,  like  ores,  are  found  mixed, 
and  counting  the  whole  at  one  hundred, 
Napoleon's  desire  for  a  sou  after  the  flesh 
should  stand  as  ten — other  reasons  ninety. 
All  men  wish  to  be  thought  young.  Na- 
poleon was  forty,  and  his  wife  was  forty- 
seven.  Talleyrand  had  spoken  of  them 
as  Old  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bonaparte. 

A  man  of  forty  is  only  a  giddy  youth, 
according  to  his  own  estimate.  Girls  of 
twenty  are  his  playfellows.  A  man  of 
sixty,  with  a  wife  forty,  and  babies  com- 
ing, is  not  old — bless  me  !  But  suppose 
his  wife  is  nearly  seventy — what  then  ! 
Napoleon  must  have  a  young  wife.  Then 
by  marrying  Marie  Louise,  Austria  could 
389 


JEmpress  Josepbtne 


be  held  as  friend :  it  was  very  necessary 
to  do  this.  Austria  must  be  secured  as 
au  ally  at  any  cost — even  at  the  cost  of 
Josephine.  It  was  painful,  but  must  be 
done  for  the  good  of  France.  The  State 
should  stand  first  in  the  mind  of  every 
loyal,  honest  man  :  all  else  is  secondary. 

So  Josephine  was  divorced,  but  was 
provided  with  an  annuity  that  was  pre- 
posterous in  its  lavish  proportions.  It 
amounted  to  over  half  a  million  dollars  a 
year. 

I  once  knew  a  man  who,  on  getting 
home  from  the  club  at  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  was  reproached  by  his  wife  for 
his  shocking  condition.  He  promptly 
threw  the  lady  over  the  banisters.  Next 
day  he  purchased  her  a  diamond  neck- 
lace at  the  cost  of  a  year's  salary,  but  she 
could  not  wear  it  out  in  society  for  a 
month  on  account  of  her  black  eye. 

Napolepn  divorced  Josephine  that  he 

might  be  the  father  of  a  line  of  kings. 

When  he  abdicated  in  1815,  he  declared 

his  son,  the  child  of  Marie  Louise,  "  Louis 

390 


impress  Sosepbfnc 


II.,  Emperor  of  France,"  and  the  world 
laughed.  The  son  died  before  he  had 
fairly  reached  manhood's  estate.  Na- 
poleon III.,  son  of  Hortense,  Queen  of 
Holland,  the  grandson  of  Josephine, 
reigned  long  and  well  as  Emperor  of 
France.  The  Prince  Imperial — a  noble 
youth, — great-grandson  of  Josephine,  was 
killed  in  Africa  while  fighting  the  battle 
of  the  nation  that  undid  Napoleon. 

Josephine  was  a  parent  of  kings :  Na- 
poleon was  not. 

When  Bonaparte  was  banished  to  Elba, 
and  Marie  Louise  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen,  Josephine  wrote  to  him  words  of 
consolation,  offering  to  share  his  exile. 

She  died  not  long  after — on  the  second 
of  June,  1814. 

After  viewing  that  gaudy  tomb  at  the 
Invalides,  and  thinking  of  the  treasure  in 
tears  and  broken  hearts  that  it  took  to 
build  it,  it  will  rest  you  to  go  to  the  sim- 
ple village  church  at  Ruel,  a  half  hour's 
ride  from  the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  where 
sleeps  Josephine,  Empress  of  France. 
391 


MARY  W.  SHELLEY 


393 


Shelley,  beloved!  the  year  has  a  new  name 
from  any  thou  knowest.  When  spring  arrives, 
leaves  that  you  never  saw  will  shadow  the 
ground,  and  flowers  you  never  beheld  will  star 
it,  and  the  grass  will  be  of  another  growth.  Thy 
name  is  added  to  the  list  which  makes  the  earth 
bold  in  her  age,  and  proud  of  what  has  been. 
Time,  with  slow,  but  unwearied  feet,  guides  her 
to  the  goal  that  thou  has  reached  ;  and  I,  her  un- 
happy child,  am  advanced  still  nearer  the  hour 
when  my  earthly  dress  shall  repose  near  thine, 
beneath  the  tomb  of  Cestius. 

Journal  of  Mary  Shelley. 


394 


MARY  W.   SHELLEY. 


MARY    W.    SHELLEY. 


WHEN  Emerson  borrowed  from 
Wordsworth  that  fine  phrase 
about  plain  living  and  high 
thinking,  no  one  was  more  astonished 
than  he  that  Whitman  and  Thoreau 
should  take  him  at  his  word.  He  was 
decidedly  curious  about  their  experiment. 
But  he  kept  a  safe  distance  between  him- 
self and  the  shirt-sleeved  Walt ;  and  as 
for  Henry  Thoreau — bless  me  !  Emerson 
regarded  him  only  as  a  fine  savage,  and 
told  him  so.  Of  course  Emerson  loved 
solitude,  but  it  was  the  solitude  of  a  li- 
brary or  an  orchard,  and  not  the  solitude 
of  plain  or  wilderness.  Emerson  looked 
395 


rtfcarg  Tim.  ©belles 


upon  Beautiful  Truth  as  an  honored  guest. 
He  adored  her,  but  it  was  with  the  adora- 
tion of  the  intellect.  He  never  got  her 
tag  in  jolly  chase  of  comradery  ;  nor 
did  he  converse  with  her,  soft  and  low, 
when  only  the  moon  peeked  out  from  be- 
hind the  silvery  clouds,  and  the  night- 
ingale listened.  He  never  laid  himself 
open  to  damages.  And  when  he  threw  a 
bit  of  a  bomb  into  Harvard  Divinity 
School  it  was  the  shrewdest  bid  for  fame 
that  ever  preacher  made. 

I  said  "shrewd" — that  's  the  word. 
Emerson  had  the  instincts  of  Connecti- 
cut ;  that  peculiar  development  of  men 
who  have  eked  out  existence  on  a  rocky 
soil,  banking  their  houses  against  grim 
winter  or  grimmer  savage  foes.  With  this 
Yankee  shrewdness  went  a  subtle  and 
sweeping  imagination,  and  a  fine  appreci- 
ation of  the  excellent  things  that  men 
have  said  and  done.  But  he  was  never 
so  foolish  as  to  imitate  the  heroic — he 
simply  admired  it  from  afar.  He  advised 
others  to  work  their  poetry  up  into  life 
396 


/ftarg  W.  Shelter 

but  he  did  not  do  so  himself.  He  never 
cast  the  bantling  on  the  rocks,  nor  caused 
him  to  be  suckled  with  the  she-wolf's  teat. 
He  admired  "  abolition  "  from  a  distance. 
When  he  went  away  from  home  it  was 
always  with  a  return  ticket.  He  has 
summed  up  Friendship  in  an  essay  as  no 
man  ever  has,  and  yet  there  was  a  self- 
protective  aloofness  in  his  friendship  that 
made  icicles  gather,  as  George  William 
Curtis  has  explained. 

In  no  relation  of  his  life  was  there  a 
complete  abandon.  His  Essay  on  Self 
Reliance  is  beef  iron,  and  wine,  and 
Works  and  Days  is  a  tonic  for  tired  men  ; 
and  yet  I  know  that  in  spite  of  all  his 
pretty  talk  about  living  near  to  Nature's 
heart  he  never  ventured  into  the  woods 
outside  of  hallooing  distance  from  the 
house.  He  could  neither  ride  a  horse, 
shoot,  nor  sail  a  boat — and  being  well 
aware  of  it  never  tried.  All  of  his 
farming  was  done  by  proxy  ;  and  when 
he  writes  to  Carlyle  late  in  life,  explain- 
ing how  he  is  worth  forty  thousand  dol- 
397 


/Hban?  im.  Sbelleg 


lars,  well  secured  by  first  mortgages,  he 
makes  clear  one  half  of  his  ambition. 

And  yet,  I  call  him  master,  and  will 
match  my  admiration  for  him,  'gainst 
that  of  any  other,  six  nights  and  days  to- 
gether. But  I  summon  him  here  only 
to  contrast  his  character  with  that  of  an- 
other— another,  who,  like  himself,  was 
twice  married. 

In  his  Essay  on  Love  Emerson  reveals 
just  an  average  sophomore  insight ;  and 
in  his  work  I  do  not  find  a  mention  or  a 
trace  of  influence  exercised  by  either  of 
the  two  women  whom  he  wedded,  nor  by 
any  other  woman.  Shelley  was  what  he 
was  through  the  influence  of  the  two  wo- 
men he  married. 

Shelley  wrecked  the  life  of  one  of  these 
women.  She  found  surcease  of  sorrow 
in  death  ;  and  when  her  body  was  found 
in  the  Serpentine  he  had  a  premonition 
that  the  hungry  waves  were  waiting  for 
him  too.  But  before  her  death  and 
through  her  death  she  pressed  home  to 
him  the  bitterest  sorrow  that  man  can 
398 


jfl&arg  tan.  ©belles 

ever  know  :  the  combined  knowledge 
that  he  has  mortally  injured  a  human 
soul  and  the  sense  of  helplessness  to 
minister  to  its  needs.  Harriet  Westbrook 
said  to  Shelley,  drink  ye  all  of  it.  And 
could  he  speak  now  he  would  say  that 
the  bitterness  of  the  potion  was  a  forma- 
tive influence  as  potent  as  that  of  the 
gentle  ministrations  of  Mary  Wollstone- 
craft,  who  broke  over  his  head  the  pre- 
cious vase  of  her  heart's-love  and  wiped 
his  feet  with  the  hairs  of  her  lead. 

In  the  poetic  sweetness,  gentleness, 
lovableness,  and  beauty  of  their  natures 
Emerson  and  Shelley  were  very  similar. 
In  a  like  environment  they  would  have 
done  the  same  things.  A  pioneer  an- 
cestry with  its  struggle  for  material 
existence  would  have  given  Shelley 
caution  ;  and  a  noble  patronymic,  fostered 
by  the  state,  lax  in  its  discipline,  would 
have  made  Emerson  toss  discretion  to  the 
winds. 

Emerson  and  Shelley  were  both  apos- 
tles of  the  good,  the  true,  and  the 
399 


rtfcarg  "Wa.  SbclleE 

beautiful.  Oue  rests  at  Sleepy  Hollow, 
his  grave  marked  by  a  great  rough-hewn 
boulder,  wbile  overhead  the  wiuds  sigh  a 
requiem  through  the  pines.  The  ashes 
of  the  other  were  laid  beneath  the  moss- 
grown  wall  of  the  Eternal  City,  and  the 
creeping  vines  and  flowers,  as  if  jealous 
of  the  white,  carveu  marble,  snuggle  close 
over  the  spot  with  their  leaves  and  petals. 
Yet  both  of  these  men  achieved  immor- 
tality, for  their  thoughts  live  again  in  the 
thoughts  of  the  race,  and  their  hopes  and 
aspirations  mingle  and  are  one  with  the 
men  and  women  of  earth  who  think  and 
feel  and  dream. 


400 


n 


IT  was  Mary  Wollstonecraft  Godwin 
who  awoke  in  Shelley  such  a  burst 
of  song  that  men  yet  listen  to  its 
cadence.  It  was  she  who  gave  his  soul 
wings  :  her  gentle  spirit  blending  with  his 
made  music  that  has  enriched  the  world. 
Without  her  he  was  fast  beating  out  his  life 
against  the  bars  of  unkind  condition,  but 
together  they  worked  and  sang.  All  of  his 
best  lines  were  recited  to  her,  all  were 
weighed  in  the  critical  balances  of  her 
woman's  judgment.  She  it  was  who  first 
wrote  it  out,  and  then  gave  it  back. 
Together  they  revised ;  and  after  he  had 
passed  on,  she  it  was  who  collected  the 
scattered  leaves,  added  the  final  word, 
and  gave  us  the  book  we  call  Shelley's 
Poems. 
Perhaps  we  might  call  all  poetry  the 
401 


flfcarg  Tim.  ©belles 


child  of  parents,  but  with  Shelley's  poems 
this  is  literally  true. 

Mary  Shelley  delighted  in  the  name, 
Wollstoiiecraft.  It  was  her  mother's 
name  ;  and  was  not  Mary  Wollstonecraft 
the  foremost  intellectual  woman  of  her 
day  ?  a  woman  of  purpose,  forceful  yet 
gentle,  appreciative,  kind. 

Mary  Wollstonecraft  was  born  in  1759; 
and  tiring  of  the  dull  monotony  of  a 
country  town  went  up  to  London  when 
yet  a  child  and  fought  the  world  alone. 
By  her  own  efforts  she  grew  learned ; 
she  had  all  science,  all  philosophy,  all 
history  at  her  fingers'  ends.  She  became 
able  to  speak  several  languages,  and  by 
her  pen  an  income  was  secured  that  was 
not  only  sufficient  for  herself  but  minis- 
tered to  the  needs  of  an  aged  father  and 
mother  and  sisters  as  well. 

Mary  Wollstonecraft  wrote  one  great 
book  (which  is  all  anyone  can  write) : 
A  Vindication  of  the  Rights  of  Woman. 
It  sums  up  all  that  has  since  been  written 
on  the  subject.  Like  an  essay  by  Herbert 
402 


flbarg  "M.  Sbelles 


Spencer,  it  views  the  matter  from  every 
side,  anticipates  every  objection — ex- 
hausts the  subject.  The  literary  style 
of  Mary  Wollstonecraft's  book  is  John- 
sonese, but  its  thought  forms  the  base  of 
all  that  has  come  after.  It  is  the  great- 
great-grandmother  of  all  woman's 
clubs  and  these  thousand  efforts  that 
women  are  now  putting  forth  along 
economic,  artistic  and  social  lines.  But 
we  have  nearly  lost  sight  of  Mary  Woll- 
stonecraft.  Can  you  name  me,  please, 
your  father's  grandmother?  Aye,  I 
thought  not ;  then  tell  me  the  name  of  the 
man  who  is  now  Treasurer  of  the  United 
States  ! 

And  so  you  see  we  do  not  know  much 
about  other  people  after  all.  But  Mary 
Wollstonecraft  pushed  the  question  of 
woman's  freedom  to  its  farthest  limit ; 
I  told  you  that  she  exhausted  the  subject. 
She  prophesied  a  day  when  woman  would 
have  economic  freedom  ;  that  is,  be  al- 
lowed to  work  at  any  craft  or  trade  for 
which  her  genius  fitted  her  and  receive 
403 


/fcars  WL.  Sbelles 


a  proper  recompense.  Woman  would 
also  have  social  freedom  :  the  right  to 
come  and  go  alone — the  privilege  of 
walking  upon  the  street  without  the 
company  of  a  man — the  right  to  study 
and  observe.  Next,  woman  would  have 
political  freedom :  the  right  to  record 
her  choice  in  matters  of  law-making. 
And  last  she  would  yet  have  sex  free- 
dom :  the  right  to  bestow  her  love 
without  prying  police  and  blundering 
law  interfering  in  the  delicate  relations 
of  married  life. 

To  make  herself  understood  Mary  Woll- 
stonecraft  explained  that  society  was 
tainted  with  the  thought  that  sex  was 
unclean  ;  but  she  held  high  the  ideal 
that  this  wonld  yet  pass  away,  and  that 
the  idea  of  holding  one's  mate  by 
statute  law  would  become  abhorrent  to 
all  good  men  and  women.  She  declared 
that  the  assumption  that  law  could  join 
a  man  and  woman  in  holy  wedlock  was 
preposterous,  and  that  the  caging  of  one 
person  by  another  for  a  lifetime  was 
404 


/Ifoarg  m.  Sbclles 

essentially  barbaric.  Only  the  love  that 
is  free  and  spontaneous  and  that  holds 
its  own  by  the  purity,  the  sweetness,  the 
tenderness  and  the  gentleness  of  its  life 
is  divine.  And  further,  she  declared  it 
her  belief  that  when  a  man  had  found 
his  true  mate  such  a  union  would  be  for 
life — it  could  not  be  otherwise.  And  the 
man  holding  his  mate  by  the  excellence 
that  was  in  him  instead  of  by  the  aid  of 
the  law  would  be  placed,  lover-like,  on 
his  good  behavior,  and  be  a  stronger  and 
manlier  being.  Such  a  union,  freed  from 
the  petty,  spying,  and  tyrannical  re- 
straints of  present  usage  must  come  ere 
the  race  could  far  advance. 

Mary  Wollstonecraft's  book  created  a 
sensation.  It  was  widely  read  and  hotly 
denounced.  A  few  upheld  it  :  among 
these  was  William  Godwin.  But  the  air 
was  so  full  of  taunt  and  threat  that  Miss 
Wollstonecraft  thought  best  to  leave 
England  for  a  time.  She  journeyed  to 
Paris  and  there  wrote  and  translated  for 
certain  English  publishers.  In  Paris 
405 


/Ifcarp  XCl.  Sbelles 


she  met  Gilbert  Irnlay,  an  American, 
seemingly  of  very  much  the  same  temper- 
ament as  herself.  She  was  thirty-six,  he 
was  somewhat  younger.  They  began 
housekeeping  on  the  ideal  basis.  In  a 
year  a  daughter  was  born  to  them. 
When  this  baby  was  three  months  old 
Imlay  disappeared,  leaving  Mary  penni- 
less and  friendless. 

It  was  a  terrible  blow  to  this  trusting 
and  gentle  woman.  But  after  a  good  cry 
or  two,  philosophy  came  to  her  rescue 
and  she  decided  that  to  be  deserted  by 
a  man  who  did  not  love  her  was  really  not 
so  bad  as  to  be  tied  to  him  for  life.  She 
earned  a  little  money  and  in  a  short  time 
started  back  for  England  with  her  babe 
and  scanty  luggage — sorrowful  yet  brave 
and  unsubdued.  She  might  have  left 
her  babe  behind,  but  she  scorned  the 
thought.  She  would  be  honest  and  con- 
ceal nothing.     Right  must  win. 

Now  I  am  told  that  an  unmarried 
woman  with  a  babe  at  her  breast  is  not 
received  in  England  into  the  best  society. 
406 


flftars  m.  Sbelleg 


The  tale  of  Mary's  misfortune  had  pre- 
ceded her  and  literary  London  laughed 
a  hoarse  guttural  guffaw  and  society  tit- 
tered to  think  how  this  woman  who  had 
written  so  smartly  had  tried  some  of  her 
own  medicine  and  found  it  bitter.  Pub- 
lishers no  longer  wanted  her  work,  old 
friends  failed  to  recognize  her,  and  one 
man  to  whom  she  applied  for  work  brought 
a  rebuke  upon  his  head,  that  lasted 
him  for  years. 

Godwin,  philosopher,  idealist,  enthusi- 
ast, and  reformer,  who  made  it  his  rule 
to  seek  out  those  in  trouble,  found  her 
and  told  a  needless  lie  by  declaring  he 
had  been  commissioned  by  a  certain 
nameless  publisher  to  get  her  to  write 
certain  articles  about  this  and  that. 
Then  he  emptied  his  pockets  of  all  the 
small  change  he  had  as  an  advance  pay- 
ment, and  he  had  n't  very  much,  and 
started  out  to  find  the  publisher  who 
would  buy  the  prospective  "hot  stuff." 
Fortunately  he  succeeded. 

After  a  few  weeks,  Mr.  Godwin, 
407 


/fcarg  m.  SbellcE 


bachelor,  aged  forty,  found  himself  very 
much  in  love  with  Mary  Wollstonecraft 
and  her  baby.  Her  absolute  purity  of 
purpose,  her  frankness,  honesty  and 
high  ideals  surpassed  anything  he  had 
ever  dreamed  of  finding  incarnated  in 
woman.  He  became  her  sincere  lover  ; 
and  she,  the  discarded,  the  forsaken, 
reciprocated  ;  for  it  seems  that  the  ten- 
drils of  affection,  ruthlessly  uprooted, 
cling  to  the  first  object  that  presents 
itself. 

And  so  they  were  married  ;  yes,  these 
two  who  had  so  generously  repudiated 
the  marriage  tie  were  married  March  29, 
1797,  at  Old  St.  Pan  eras  Church,  for  they 
had  come  to  the  sane  conclusion  that 
to  affront  society  was  not  wise. 

On  August  30,  1797  was  born  to  them 
a  daughter.  Then  the  mother  died — 
died  did  brave  Mary  Wollstonecraft,  and 
left  behind  a  girl  baby  one  week  old. 
And  this  baby,  grown  to  womanhood, 
became  Mary  Wollstonecraft  Shelley. 

408 


Ill 

GODWIN  wrote  one  great  book : 
Political  Justice.  It  is  a  work 
so  high  and  noble  in  its  outlook 
that  only  a  Utopia  could  ever  realize  its 
ideals.  When  men  are  everywhere  will- 
ing to  give  to  other  men  all  the  rights 
they  demand  for  themselves,  and  eo-oper- 
ation  takes  the  place  of  competition,  then 
will  Godwin's  philosophy  be  not  too 
great  and  good  for  daily  food.  Among 
the  many  who  read  his  book  and  thought 
they  saw  in  it  the  portent  of  a  diviner 
day  was  one  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  about  the 
year  1813,  this  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 
called  on  Godwin  who  was  living  in  a 
rusty,  musty  tenement  in  Somerstown. 
The  young  man  was  twenty  :  tall  and 
slender,  with  as  handsome  a  face  as  was 
409 


/ifcavE  m.  Sbelleg 


ever  given  to  mortal.  The  face  was  pale 
as  marble  :  the  features  almost  feminine 
in  their  delicacy  :  thin  lips,  straight  nose, 
good  teeth,  abundant,  curling  hair,  and 
eyes  so  dreamy  aud  sorrowful  that  women 
on  the  street  would  often  turn  aud  follow 
the  "  angel  soul  garbed  in  human  form." 

This  man  Shelley  was  sick  at  heart} 
bereft,  perplexed,  in  sore  straights,  and  to 
whom  should  he  turn  for  advice  in  this 
time  of  undoing  but  to  Godwin,  the  phi- 
losopher !  Besides,  Godwin  had  been  the 
husband  of  Mary  Wollstonecraft,  and  the 
splendid  precepts  of  these  two  had  nour- 
ished into  being  all  the  latent  excellence 
of  the  youth.  Yes,  he  would  go  to  God- 
win— Godwin,  the  Plato  of  England  ! 

And  so  he  went  to  Godwiu. 

Now  this  young  man  Shelley  was  of 
noble  blood.  His  grandfather  was  Sir 
Bysshe  Shelley,  Bart.,  and  worth  near 
three  hundred  thousand  pounds,  all  of 
which  would  some  day  come  to  our  pale- 
faced  youth.  But  the  youth  was  a  repub- 
lican— he  believed  in  the  brotherhood  of 
410 


dBarfi  m.  Sbellcg 


man.  He  longed  to  benefit  his  fellows, 
to  lift  them  out  of  the  bondage  of  fear, 
and  sin,  and  ignorance.  After  reading 
Hume,  and  Godwin,  and  Wollstonecraft, 
he  had  decided  that  Christianity  as  de- 
fined by  the  Church  of  England  was  a 
failure  :  it  was  only  an  organized  fetich, 
kept  in  place  by  the  state,  and  devoid  of 
all  that  thrills  to  noble  thinking  and 
noble  doing. 

And  so  young  Shelley  at  Oxford  had 
written  a  pamphlet  to  this  end,  explain- 
ing the  matter  to  the  world. 

A  copy  being  sent  to  the  head-master 
of  the  school,  young  Shelley  was  hustled 
off  the  premises  in  short  order  and  a  note 
sent  to  his  father  requesting  that  the  lad 
be  well  flogged  and  kept  several  goodly 
leagues  from  Oxford. 

Shelley  the  elder  was  furious  that  his 
son  should  so  disgrace  the  family  name, 
and  demanded  he  should  write  another 
pamphlet  supporting  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land and  recanting  all  the  heresy  he  had 
uttered.  Young  Percy  replied  that  con- 
411 


flftarg  THH.  SbcllCB 


science  would  not  admit  of  his  doing  this. 
The  father  said  conscience  be  blanked: 
and  further  vised  almost  the  same  words 
that  were  used  by  Professor  Jowett  some 
years  later  to  a  certain  sceptical  pupil. 

Professor  Jowett  sent  for  the  youth  and 
said,  "Young  man,  I  am  told  that  you 
say  you  cannot  find  God.     Is  this  true  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  youth. 

"  Well,  you  will  please  find  Him  before 
eight  o'clock  to-night  or  get  out  of  this 
college." 

Shelley  was  not  allowed  to  return  borne, 
and  moreover  his  financial  allowance  was 
cut  off  entirely. 

And  so  he  wandered  up  to  London  and 
chewed  the  cud  of  bitter  fancy,  resolved 
to  starve  before  he  would  abate  one  jot  or 
tittle  of  what  he  thought  was  truth.  And 
he  might  have  starved  had  not  his  sisters 
sent  him  scanty  sums  of  money  from 
time  to  time.  The  messenger  who  car- 
ried the  money  to  him  was  a  young  girl 
by  the  name  of  Harriet  Westbrook,  round 
and  smooth  and  pink  and  sixteen.  Percy 
412 


flbarg  'Cd.  Sbelleg 


was  nineteen.  Harriet  was  the  daughter 
of  an  innkeeper  and  did  not  get  along 
very  well  at  home.  She  told  Percy  about 
it,  and  of  course  she  knew  his  troubles, 
and  so  they  talked  about  it  over  the  gate, 
and  mutually  condoled  with  one  another. 

Soon  after  this  Harriet  had  a  fresh 
quarrel  with  her  folks  ;  and  with  the  tears 
yet  on  her  pretty  lashes  ran  straight  to 
Shelley's  lodging  and  throwing  herself 
into  his  arms  proposed  that  they  cease  to 
fight  unkind  fate,  and  run  away  together 
and  be  happy  ever  afterward. 

And  so  they  ran  away. 

Shelley's  father  instanced  this  as  an- 
other proof  of  depravity  and  said,  "Let 
'em  go  !  "  The  couple  went  to  Scotland. 
In  a  few  months  they  came  back  from 
Scotland,  because  no  one  can  really  be 
happy  away  from  home.  Besides  they 
were  out  of  money — and  neither  one  had 
ever  earned  any  money  —  and  as  the 
Westbrooks  were  willing  to  forgive,  even 
if  the  Shelleys  were  not,  they  came  back. 
But  the  Westbrooks  were  only  willing  to 
413 


/lftarg  m.  Sbelteg 


forgive  in  consideration  of  Percy  and 
Harriet  being  properly  married  by  a 
clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England. 
Now  Shelley  had  not  wavered  in  his 
Godwin-Wollstonecraft  theories,  but  he 
was  chivalrous  and  Harriet  was  tearful, 
and  so  he  gracefully  waived  all  private 
considerations  and  they  were  duly  mar- 
ried.    It  was  a  quiet  wedding. 

In  a  short  time  a  baby  was  born. 

Harriet  was  amiable,  being  healthy 
and  having  very  moderate  sensibilities. 
She  had  no  opinion  on  any  subject,  and 
in  no  degree  sympathized  with  Shelley's 
wild  aspirations.  She  thought  a  title 
would  be  nice,  and  urged  that  her  hus- 
band make  peace  by  renouncing  his  "in- 
fidelity." Literature  was  silly  business 
anyway,  and  folks  should  do  as  other 
folks  did.  If  the}7  did  n't,  lawks-a-daisy  ! 
there  was  trouble  !  ! 

And  so,  with  income  cut  off,  banished 
from  home,  from  school,  out  of  employ- 
ment, with  a  wife  who  had  no  sympathy 
with  him—  who  could  not  understand  him 
414 


/fcarg  TJCl.  Sbcileg 


— whose  pitiful  weakness  stuug  him  and 
wrung  him,  he  thought  of  Godwin,  the 
philosopher  :  for  at  the  last  philosophy  is 
the  cure  for  all  our  ills. 

Godwin  was  glad  to  see  Shelley — God- 
win was  glad  to  see  anyone.  Godwin 
was  fifty-five,  bald,  had  a  Socratic  fore- 
head, was  smooth-cheeked,  shabby,  and 
genteel.  Yes,  Godwin  was  the  author 
of  Political  yustice— but  that  was  written 
quite  a  while  before,  twenty  years ! 

One  of  the  girls  was  sent  out  for  a  quart 
of  half-and-half,  and  the  pale  visitor  cast 
his  eyes  around  this  family  room,  that 
served  for  dining-room,  library,  and  par- 
lor. Godwin  had  married  again, — Shel- 
ley had  heard  that,  but  he  was  a  bit 
shocked  to  find  that  the  great  man  who 
was  once  mate  to  Mary  Wollstonecraft 
had  married  a  shrew.  The  sound  of  her 
high-pitched  voice  convinced  the  visitor 
at  once  that  she  was  a  very  commonplace 
person. 

There  were  three  girls  and  a  boy  in  the 
room,  busy  at  sewing  or  reading.  None 
415 


d&arfi  Id.  Sbclles 


of  them  were  introduced,  but  the  air  of 
the  place  was  Bohemian,  and  the  conver- 
sation soon  became  general.  All  talked 
except  one  of  the  girls  :  she  sat  reading, 
and  several  times  when  the  young  man 
glanced  over  her  way  she  was  looking  at 
him.  Shelley  stayed  an  hour,  spending 
a  very  pleasant  time,  but  as  he  had  no 
opportunity  of  stating  his  case  to  the 
philosopher  he  made  an  engagement  to 
call  agaiu. 

As  he  groped  his  way  down  stairs  and 
walked  homewards  he  mused.  The 
widow  Clairmont,  whom  Godwin  had 
married,  was  a  worldling,  that  was  sure  ; 
her  daughter  Jane  was  good-looking  and 
clever,  but  both  she  and  Charles,  the 
boy,  were  the  children  of  their  mother — 
he  had  picked  them  out  intuitively.  The 
little  young  woman  with  brown  eyes  and 
merry  ways  was  Fanny  Godwin,  the  first 
child  of  Mary  Wollstonecraft  and  adopted 
daughter  of  Godwin.  The  tall  slender 
girl  who  was  so  very  quiet  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  Godwin  and  Mary  Wollstonecraft. 
416 


/IbarE  TIGl.  Sbelleg 

"Ye  gods,  -what  a  pedigree  !  "  said  Shel- 
ley. 

The  young  man  called  again,  and  after 
explaining  his  situation  was  advised  to 
go  back  home  and  make  peace  with  his 
wife  and  father  at  any  cost  of  personal 
intellectual  qualms.  Philosophy  was  all 
right ;  but  life  was  one  thing  and  philos- 
ophy another.  Live  with  Harriet  as  he 
had  vowed  to  do, — love  was  a  good 
deal  glamour,  anyway  ;  write  poetry,  of 
course,  if  he  felt  like  it,  but  keep  it  to 
himself.  The  world  was  not  to  be  moved 
by  enthusiastic  youth.  Godwin  had  tried 
it — he  had  been  an  enthusiastic  youth 
himself,  and  that  was  why  he  now  lived 
in  Somerstown  instead  of  Piccadilly. 
Move  in  the  line  of  least  resistance. 

Shelley  went  away  shocked  and 
stunned.  Going  by  Old  St.  Pancras 
Church  he  turned  back  to  step  in  a  mo- 
ment and  recover  his  scattered  senses. 
He  walked  through  the  cool,  dim  old 
building,  out  into  the  churchyard,  where 
toppling  moss-covered  gray  slabs  marked 
417 


dfoarE  TNI.  ©belles 


the  resting-places  of  the  sleeping  dead. 
All  seemed  so  cool  and  quiet  and  calm 
there  !  the  dead  are  at  rest :  they  have 
no  vexatious  problems. 

A  few  people  were  moving  about,  care- 
lessly reading  the  inscriptions.  The 
young  man  unconsciously  followed  their 
example  ;  he  passed  slowly  along  one  of 
the  walks,  scanning  the  stones.  His 
eye  fell  upon  the  word  "  Wollstonecraft," 
marked  on  a  plain  little  slate  slab.  He 
paused  and,  leaning  over,  removed  his 
hat  and  read,  and  then  glancing  just 
beyond,  saw  seated  on  the  grass — 
the  tall  girl.  She  held  a  book  in  her 
hands,  but  she  was  looking  at  him  very 
soberly.  Their  eyes  met,  and  they 
.smiled  just  a  little.  The  young  man  sat 
down  on  the  turf  on  the  other  side  of  the 
grave  from  the  girl,  and  they  talked  of 
the  woman  by  whose  dust  they  watched  : 
and  the  young  man  found  that  the  tall 
girl  was  an  Ancestor  Worshipper  and  a 
mystic,  and  moreover,  had  a  flight  of 
soul  that  held  him  in  awe.  Besides,  in 
418 


dfoarg  Id.  Sbelleg 


form  and  feature,  she  was  rarely  beauti- 
ful.    She  was  quiet,  but  she  could  talk. 

The  next  day,  as  Percy  Shelley  strolled 
through  the  churchyard  of  Old  St.  Pan- 
eras,  the  tall  girl  was  there  again  with 
her  book,  in  the  same  place. 


IV 

WHEN  Shelley  made  that  first  call 
at  the  Godwins  he  was  twenty. 
The  three  girls  he  met  were 
fifteen,  sixteen,  and  seventeen,  respect- 
ively. Mary  being  the  youngest  in  years, 
but  the  most  mature,  she  would  have 
easily  passed  for  the  oldest.  Now  all 
three  of  these  girls  were  dazzled  by  the 
beauty  and  grace  and  intellect  of  the 
strange,  pale-faced  visitor. 

He  came  to  the  house  again  and  again 
during  the  next  few  months.  All  the  girls 
loved  him  violently,  for  that 's  the  way 
girls  under  eighteen  often  love.  Mr. 
Godwin  discovered  the  fact  that  all  of  his 
girls  loved  Shelley.  They  lost  appetite 
and  were  alternately  in  chills  of  fear  and 
fevers  of  ecstacy.  Mr.  Godwin,  being  a 
kind  man  and  a  good,  took  occasion  to 
420 


/foarg  Tim.  Sbelleg 


explain  to  them  that  Mr.  Shelley  was  a 
married  man,  and  although  it  was  true 
that  he  did  not  live  on  good  terms  with 
his  wife,  yet  she  was  his  lawful  wife,  and 
marriage  was  a  sacred  obligation :  of 
course  pure  philosophy  or  poetic  justice 
took  a  different  view,  but  in  society  the 
marriage  tie  must  not  be  held  lightly. 
In  short  Shelley  was  married  and  that 
was  all  there  was  about  it. 

Shelley  still  continued  to  call,  coming 
via  St.  Pancras  Church.  In  a  few 
months  Mary  confided  to  Jane  that  she 
and  Shelley  were  about  to  elope,  and 
Jane  must  make  peace  and  explain  mat- 
ters after  they  were  gone. 

Jane  cried  and  declared  she  would  go 
too — she  would  go  or  die  :  she  would  go 
as  servant,  scullion — anything,  but  go 
she  would.  Shelley  was  consulted,  and 
to  prevent  tragedy  consented  to  Jane 
going  as  maid  to  Mary,  his  well-be- 
loved. 

So  the  trinicy  eloped.  It  being 
Shelley's  second  elopement  he  took 
421 


Aarp  TKl.  Sbelleg 


the  matter  a  little  more  coolly  than  did 
the  girls,  who  had  never  eloped  before. 
Having  reached  Dover,  and  while  wait- 
ing at  a  hotel  for  the  boat,  the  landlord 
suddenly  appeared  and  breathlessly  ex- 
plained to  Shelley,  "a  fat  woman  has 
just  arrived  and  swears  that  you  have  run 
away  with  her  girls  !  " 

It  was  Mrs.  Godwin. 

The  party  got  out  by  the  back  way  and 
hired  a  small  boat  to  take  them  to  Calais. 
They  embarked  in  a  storm,  and  after 
beating  about  all  night,  came  in  sight  of 
France  the  next  morning  as  the  sun  arose. 

Godwin  was  very  much  grieved  and 
shocked  to  think  that  Shelley  had  broken 
in  upon  established  order  and  done  this 
thing.  But  Shelley  had  read  Godwin's 
book  and  simply  taken  the  philosopher  at 
his  word  :  ' '  The  impulses  of  the  human 
heart  are  just  and  right  ;  they  are  greater 
than  law,  and  must  be  respected." 

The  runaways  seemed  to  have  had  a 
jolly  time  in  France  as  long  as  their 
money  lasted.  They  bought  a  mule  to 
422 


flfcarg  "M.  Sbellcs 


carry  their  luggage,  and  walked.  Jane's 
feet  blistered,  however,  and  they  seated 
her  upon  the  luggage  upon  the  mule,  and 
as  the  author  of  Queen  Mab  led  the  patient 
beast  Mary  with  a  switch  followed  behind. 
After  somedaysShelley  sprained  his  ankle, 
and  then  it  was  his  turn  to  ride  while  Mary 
led  the  mule  and  Jane  trudged  after. 

Thus  they  journeyed  for  six  weeks, 
writing  poetry,  discussing  philosophy ; 
loving,  wild,  free,  and  careless,  until  they 
came  to  Switzerland.  One  morning  they 
counted  their  money  and  found  they  had 
just  enough  to  take  them  to  England. 

Arriving  in  London  the  Godwins  were 
not  inclined  to  take  them  back,  and  so- 
ciety in  general  looked  upon  them  with 
complete  disfavor. 

Shelley's  father  was  now  fully  convinced 
of  his  son's  depravity,  but  doled  out 
enough  money  to  prevent  actual  starva- 
tion. Shelley  began  to  perceive  that  any 
man  who  sets  himself  against  the  estab- 
lished order— the  order  that  the  world 
has  been  thousands  of  years  in  building 
423 


flftans  "W.  Sbelleu 


up — will  be  ground  into  the  dust.  The 
old  world  may  be  wrong  but  it  cannot  be 
righted  in  a  day,  and  so  long  as  a  man 
chooses  to  live  in  society  he  must  con- 
form, in  the  maiu,  to  society  usages. 
These  old  ways  that  have  done  good 
service  all  the  years  cannot  be  replaced 
by  the  instantaneous  process.  If  changed 
at  all  they  must  change  as  man  changes, 
and  man  must  change  first.  It  is  man 
must  be  reformed,  not  custom. 

Shelley  and  Mary  Godwin  were  mates 
if  ever  such  existed.  In  a  year  Mary  had 
developed  from  a  child  into  splendid 
womanhood — a  beautiful,  superior,  ear- 
nest woman.  By  her  own  efforts,  of 
course  aided  by  Shelley,  for  they  were 
partners  in  everything,  she  became 
versed  in  the  classics  and  delved  deeply 
into  the  literature  of  a  time  long  past. 
Unlike  her  mother,  Mary  Shelley  could 
do  no  great  work  alone.  The  sensitive- 
ness and  the  delicacy  of  her  nature  pre- 
cluded that  self-reliant  egoism  which 
can  create.  She  wrote  one  book — Frank- 
424 


/Bars  m.  Sbelleg 


enstein — which  in  point  of  prophetic  and 
allegorical  suggestion  stamps  the  work  as 
classic  :  but  it  was  written  under  the  im- 
mediate spell  of  Shelley's  presence. 
Shelley  also  could  not  work  alone,  and 
without  her  the  world's  disfavor  must 
have  whipped  him  into  insanity  and 
death. 

As  it  was  they  sought  peace  in  love 
and  Italy,  living  near  Lord  Byron  in  great 
intimacy  and  befriended  by  him  in  many 
ways. 

But  peace  was  not  for  Shelley.  Ca- 
lamity was  at  the  door.  He  could  never 
forget  how  he  had  lifted  Harriet  West- 
brook  into  a  position  for  which  she  was 
not  fitted  and  then  left  her  to  flounder 
alone.  And  when  word  came  that 
Harriet  had  drowned  herself,  his  cup  of 
woe  was  full.  Shortly  before  this  Fanny 
Godwin  had  gone  away  with  great  delib- 
eration, leaving  an  empty  laudanum  bottle 
to  tell  the  tale. 

On  December  30,  1816,  Shelley  and 
Mary  Godwin  were  married  at  St.  Mil- 
425 


jflBanj  m.  Sbelles 


dred's  Church,  London.  Both  had  now 
fully  concluded  with  Godwin  that  man 
owes  a  duty  to  the  unborn  and  to  so- 
ciety, and  that  to  place  one's  self  in  op- 
position to  custom  is  at  least  very  bad 
policy. 

But  although  Shelley  had  made  society 
tardy  amends,  society  would  not  forgive  ; 
and  in  a  long  legal  fight  to  obtain  posses- 
sion of  his  children,  Ian  the  and  Charles, 
of  whom  Harriet  was  the  mother,  the 
Court  of  Chancery  decided  against 
Shelley,  on  the  grounds  that  he  was  "  an 
unfit  person,  being  an  atheist  and  a  re- 
publican." 

About  this  time  was  born  little  Allegra, 
"the  Dawn,"  child  of  Lord  Byron  and 
Jane  Clairmout.  Then  afterwards  came 
bickerings  with  Byron  and  threats  of  a 
duel  and  all  that. 

Finally  there  was  a  struggle  between 
Byron  and  Miss  Clairmout  for  the  child  : 
but  death  solved  the  issue  and  the  beauti- 
ful little  girl  passed  beyond  the  reach  of 
either. 

426 


flbarg  XUl.  Sbetleg 


And  so  we  find  Shelley's  heart  wrung 
by  the  sorrows  of  others  and  by  his  own  ; 
and  when  Mary  and  he  laid  away  in  death 
their  bright  boy  William  and  their  baby 
girl,  Clara,  the  fates  seemed  to  have  done 
their  worst.  But  man  seems  to  have  a 
certain  capacity  for  pain  and  beyond  this 
even  God  cannot  go. 

Shelley  struggled  on  and  with  Mary's 
belp  continued  to  write. 

Another  babe  was  born  and  the  world 
grew  brighter.  They  were  now  on  the 
shores  of  the  Mediterranean  with  a  little 
group  of  enthusiasts  who  thought  and 
felt  as  they  did.  For  the  first  time  they 
realized  that,  after  all,  they  were  a  part  of 
the  world,  and  linked  to  the  human  race — 
not  set  off  alone,  despised,  forsaken. 

Then  to  join  their  little  community 
were  coming  Leigh  Hunt  and  his  wife — 
Leigh  Hunt,  who  had  lain  in  prison  for 
the  right  of  free  thought  and  free  speecb. 
What  a  joy  to  greet  and  welcome  such  a 
man  to  their  home  ! 

And  so  Shelley,  blithe  and  joyous,  sailed 
427 


/Iftarx?  im.  Sbellep 


away  to  meet  his  friend.  But  Shelley 
never  came  back  to  his  wife  and  baby 
boy.  A  few  days  after,  the  waves  cast  his 
body  up  on  the  beach,  and  you  know  the 
rest — how  the  faithful  Trelawney  and 
Byron  made  the  funeral  pyre  and  reduced 
the  body  to  ashes. 

Mary  was  twenty-six  years  old  then. 
She  continued  to  live — to  live  only  in  the 
memory  of  her  Shelley  and  with  the  firm 
thought  in  her  mind  that  they  would  be 
again  united.  She  seemed  to  exist  but 
to  care  for  her  boy,  and  to  do  as  best  she 
could  the  work  that  Shelley  had  left 
undone. 

The  boy  grew  into  a  fine  youth,  and 
was  as  devoted  to  his  mother  as  she  was 
to  him.  The  title  of  the  estate  with  all 
its  vast  wealth  descended  to  him  and  to- 
gether she  lived  out  her  days,  tenderly 
cared  for  to  the  last,  dying  in  her  son's 
arms,  aged  fifty-four. 

She  has  told  us  that  the  first  sixteen  years 
of  her^life  were  spent  in  waiting  for  her 
Shelley,  eight  years  she  lived  with  him  in 
428 
I 


i 


dfcarc  m.  SbelleE 


divitiest  companionship,  and  twenty- 
eight  years  she  waited  and  worked  to 
prepare  herself  to  rejoin  him. 


429 


SLtttle  Sourness  to  tbe  ibomes 
of  Eminent  painters 

Described  by  Elbert  Hubbard. 

The  Series  of  1899  comprises  : 

Michael  Angelo,  Rembrandt,  Rubens,  Meis- 
sonier,  Titian,  Anthony  Vandyck,  Fortuny, 
Ary  Scheffer,  Jean  Frangois  Millet,  Joshua 
Reynolds,  Landseer,  Gustave  Dore. 

Each  number  contains  a  portrait. 
The  price  of  the  series  of  12  numbers  is 
$  1. 00,  and  for  single  copies  10  cents. 

Little  Journeys  to  the  Homes  of 

Famous  Women  Amen  .an  Authors 

Good  Men  and  Great      American  Statesmen 
Eminent  Painters 

Each  fully  illustrated.     160,  gilt  tops, 

5  vols,  in  a  box,  $8.75. 
Also  sold  separately,  each     .      .       .     $1.75 

"  The  series  is  well  conceived  and  excellently 
sustained.  The  most  captious  critic  could  not  sug- 
gest an  improvement.  Never  was  there  more  satis- 
factory packing,  in  more  attractive  shape,  of  matter 
worth  at  least  ten  times  the  money."—  Buffalo  Com* 
mercial. 

"  The  charm  of  Mr.  Hubbard's  style,  one  third 
narrative,  two-thirds  whimsical  philosophy  and  char- 
acter study — nowhere  blank  biography  or  guide-book 
description— is  as  manifest  in  his  '  Homes  of  Famous 
Women  '  as  in  his  '  Homes  of  Good  Men  and  Great.' 
In  truth,  he  is  freer,  lighter  in  touch,  more  gracious 
in  humor  in  this  than  in  the  preceeding  volumes. 
The  '  Little  Journeys  '  unpretentious  as  they  are,  are 
literature,  and  will  live  and  quicken  the  minds  of 
readers  when  the  biographies  are  dust." — Journal  oj 
Education. 

Q.  P.  PUTNAMi>M)NS,  New  York  and  London 


BELLES=LETTRES. 


Browning,  Poet  and  Man.    A  Survey. 

By  Elisabeth  Luther  Cary,  author  of 
"  Tennyson  ;  His  Homes,  His  Friends,  and 
His  Works."  With  25  illustratipns  in  photo- 
gravure and  some  text  illustrations.  Large 
8°,  gilt  top,  in  a  box. 

This  volume  forms  a  companion  work  to  Miss  Cary's 
book  on  Tennyson  issued  last  year,  which  met  with 
such  a  cordial  reception. 

Impressions  of  Spain. 

By  James  Russell  Lowell.  Edited  by 
Joseph  B.  Gilder.  Introduction  by  A.  A. 
Adee.     With  portrait.     12",  gilt  top. 

These  impressions  of  Spain  were  gathered  by  Mr. 
Lowell  while  Minister  to  that  country.  He  was  a 
close  observer  of  men  and  of  things,  and  the  letters 
which  make  up  this  volume  (letters  which  have  been 
selected  from  the  series  addressed  to  the  Department 
of  State)  are  of  special  interest  not  only  because  of 
their  subject-matter,  but  also  because  of  the  form  in 
which  they  are  presented. 

Rip  Van  Winkle. 

The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 

By  Washington  Irving.  The  two  vol- 
umes contain  15  full-page  photogravures  and 
numerous  text-cuts  by  Frederick  S.  Co- 
burn.  With  title-page  and  borders  in  colors, 
and  cover  designs,  designed  especially  for 
this  edition  by  Margaret  Armstrong.  2 
vols.,  8°,  gilt  top. 

These  two  little  classics  from  the  pen  of  Irving, 
"  The  Father  of  American  Letters,"  can  never  fail  to 
interest  the  reader.  The  stories  have  been  given  a 
most  artistic  setting,  the  borders  having  been  designed 
by  Miss  Margaret  Armstrong  and  the  illustrations  by 
the  well-known  artist,  Frederick  Simpson  Coburn. 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  New  York  &  London 


HISTORIC  MANSIONS. 


Famous  Homes  of  Great  Britain 
and  their  Stories. 

Edited  by  A.  H.  Malan.  Being  descrip- 
tions of  twelve  of  the  Famous  Homes  of 
England.  Among  the  writers  are  the  Duke 
of  Marlborough,  the  Duchess  of  Cleveland, 
Lady  Dudley,  Lady  Newton,  Lady  Warwick, 
Hugh  Campbell,  and  A.  H.  Malan.  With 
200  full-page  illustrations.  1  vol.,  royal  8°, 
gilt  top,  450  pages. 

CONTENTS : 

Alnwick.  Hardwick.  Belvoir  Castle. 

Blenheim.  Chatsworth.  Battle  Abbey. 

Charlecote.  Lyme.  Holland  House. 

Penshurst.  Cawdor  Castle.  Warwick  Castle. 

Romance  of  the  Feudal  Chateaux. 

By  Elizabeth  W.  Champney.  Fully 
illustrated  with  photogravure,  half-tone,  and 
line  plates.     Large  8°,  gilt  top. 

Mrs.  Champney  has  chosen  a  few  of  the  Feudal 
Chateaux  as  typical.  She  writes  sympathetically 
concerning  the  ruins  of  these  chateaux  and  the  tradi- 
tions which  cling  to  them.  Some  of  these  traditions 
were  told  to  her  Dy  simple  people  on  the  spot ;  others 
she  has  derived  from  the  old  chronicles,  reading  a 
little  between  the  lines,  and  seeing  things  which,  writ- 
ten in  that  magical  sympathetic  ink,  are  too  faded 
and  faint  to  reach  cue  eye  of  the  searcher  for  authen- 
ticated statistics. 

Where  Ghosts  Walk. 

The  Haunts  of  Familiar  Characters  in 
History  and  Literature.  By  Marion  Har- 
LAND.  With  33  illustrations.  8°,  gilt  top, 
in  a  box,  $2.50. 

"  In  this  volume  fascinating  pictures  are  thrown 
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have  done  with  our  admiration  for  one  before  the  next 
one  is  encountered.  .  .  .  Long-forgotten  heroes  live 
once  more;  we  recall  the  honored  dead  to  life  again, 
and  the  imagination  runs  riot.  Travel  of  this  Kind 
does  not  weary,  it  fascinates." — New  York  Times. 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  New  York  &  London 


HOLIDAY  BOOKS. 


Love- Letters  of  a  Musician. 

By  Myrtle  Reed.     8°,  gilt  top. 

A  collection  of  imaginary  epistles  addressed  by  a 
young  violinist  to  his  lady  during  the  year  following 
his  rejection,  and  with  a  curious  fancy,  posted  in  his 
trunk.  The  musician's  illness,  and  the  friends  who 
find  the  letters,  make  the  happy  ending  possible. 

Miss  Reed  has  suited  the  mood  of  each  letter  to  a 
musical  theme,  which  is  expressed  not  only  by  the 
appropriate  tempo  placed  at  the  head  of  each  chapter, 
but  by  bars  of  music  chosen  from  compositions  which 
approach  very  nearly  the  spirit  of  each  chapter,  and 
thus  makes  the  "  Love-Letters  "  suitable  for  musical 
readings. 

Sleepy=Time  Stories. 

By  Maud  B.  Booth  (Mis.  Ballington 
Booth).  With  a  preface  by  Chauncey  M. 
Depew.  Illustrated  by  Maud  Humphrey. 
8°,  gilt  top. 

Mr.  Depew  writes  in  his  preface:  "  In  the  dreary 
desert  of  child-lore,  it  is  like  an  oasis  to  the  thirsty 
soul  to  find  so  bright,  loving,  and  natural  an  inter- 
preter and  instructor  as  Mrs.  Ballington  Booth.  .  .  . 
In  putting  into  print  for  others  these  treasures  of  her 
own  nursery  she  has  made  all  children  her  debtors." 

Ariel  Booklets. 

A  series  of  productions  complete  in  small 
compass,  which  have  been  accepted  as  classics 
of  their  kind.  With  photogravure  frontis- 
piece. Red  leather,  320,  gilt  top,  each  75 
cents. 

The  Qold  Bug.     By  Edgar  Allan  Poe. 

Rab  and   His  Friends,  and  Majorie   Fleming. 

By  John  Brown,  M.D. 
The  Culprit  Fay.     By  Joseph  Rodman  Drake. 
Our  Best  Society.    By  George  William  Curtis. 
Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese.     By  Elizabeth 

B.  Browning. 
The  School  for  Scandal.     By  Richard  Brinsley 

Sheridan. 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  New  York  &  London 


BY  MARION  HARLAND. 


Literary  Hearthstones. 

Studies  of  the  Home  Life  of  Certain 
Writers  and  Thinkers,  tfut  up  in  sets  of 
two  volumes  each,  in  boxes.  Fully  illus- 
trated.    16°,  gilt  top. 

The  first  issues  will  be  : 
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In  this  series,  Marion  Harland  presents, 
not  dry  biographies,  but,  as  indicated  in  the 
sub-title,  studies  of  the  home-life  of  certain 
writers  and  thinkers.  The  volumes  will  be 
found  as  interesting  as  stories,  and,  indeed, 
they  have  been  prepared  in  the  same  method 
as  would  be  pursued  in  writing  a  story,  that 
is  to  say,  with  a  due  sense  of  proportion. 

Some  Colonial  Homesteads  and 
their  Stories. 

Fully  illustrated.     8°,  gilt  top,  in  a  box, 


More  Colonial  Homesteads  and 
their  Stories. 

Fully  illustrated.  8°,  gilt  top,  in  a  box, 
$3.00. 

In  the  hands  of  Marion  Harland,  the  old 
mansions  glow  with  the  old-time  warmth  and 
hospitality  ;  and  their  halls  are  peopled  once 
more  with  the  characters  who  had  their  part 
in  building  up  the  nation. 


G.  P.   PUTNAM'S   SONS 

NEW  YORK  &  LONDON 


BOOKS  OF  TRAVEL. 


The  Yang-Tse  Valley  and  Beyond. 

An  Account  of  Journeys  in  Central  and 
Western  China,  especially  in  the  Province  of 
Tze-Chuan,  and  among  the  Mant-Zu  of  the 
Tsu-Kuh-Shaw  Mountains.  By  Isabella 
L.  Bird  (Mrs.  Bishop),  F.R.G.S.,  author  of 
"  Unbeaten  Tracks  in  Japan,"  etc.  With 
maps  and  about  ioo  full-page  illustrations 
from  photographs  by  the  author.    2  vols.,  8°. 

A  Prisoner  of  the  Khaleefa. 

Twelve  Years'  Captivity  at  Omdurman. 
By  Charles  Neufeld.  With  36  illustra- 
tions.    8°. 

This  very  important  book  gives  Mr.  Neufeld's  own 
account  of  his  experiences  during  his  twelve  years' 
captivity  at  Omdurman.  He  set  out  from  Cairo  in 
1887  on  a  trading  expedition  to  Kordofan,  but  was  be- 
trayed by  his  Arab  guides  into  the  hands  of  the  Der- 
vishes, and  carried  by  his  captors  to  the  Khaleefa 
at  Omdurman.  There  he  was  thrown  into  prison, 
loaded  with  fetters,  led  out  for  execution,  and  threat- 
ened with  instant  death  unless  he  would  embrace  the 
tenets  of  Mahdism,  but  was  spared  for  reasons  of  the 
Khaleefa's  own,  and  kept  a  close  prisoner.  He  gives 
the  most  vivid  account  of  his  life  in  the  prison,  of  his 
fellow-prisoners,  of  the  Kaleefa's  government,  and  of 
his  own  attempts  to  escape. 

Quaint  Corners  of  Ancient   Empires. 

Southern  India,  Burma,  and  Manila.  By 
Michael  Myers  Shoemaker,  author  of 
"  Islands  of  the  Southern  Seas,"  etc.  Fully 
illustrated.     8°,  gilt  top. 

In  this  new  volume  the  author  takes  his  readers  on 
a  flying  trip  through  Southern  India  and  Burma — 
those  relics  of  ancient  empires  which  are  fast  chang- 
ing under  the  swift  progress  of  civilization.  From 
Burma  Mr.  Shoemaker  went  to  Manila,  and  was  able 
to  gather  much  interesting  material  concerning  this 
section  of  the  Philippines.  No  spot  upon  the  globe 
is  of  more  interest  to  Americans  at  the  present  day 
than  Manila,  and  it  is  essential  that  the  real  condi- 
tion of  things  should  be  clearly  understood. 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  New  York  &  London 


THE  LIBRARY 
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